The Sinews of Thy Heart
by Amarielle
Summary: The war altered nothing at Grimmauld Place. The house stayed the same, but its inhabitants changed. Against every natural law, Remus Lupin found a place where he belonged inside one of the largest hearts he'd ever known: the heart of Hermione Granger.
1. Prologue

—I'm actually starting another one? There's no sodding end in sight. I'm going to be at this forever.

All right then, let's get on with it, shall we? Characters are not mine, yadda yadda. Forgive any factual errors—haven't read HBP since it came out and I don't really care. Sorry I'm a bit cranky—it's probably because I wrote this at an unholy hour, and because I simply can't believe I'm attempting another story when my incomplete monsterfic is looming up at me from another file on my hard drive….

_(coeptus)_

The house had not changed.

It had not changed aside from several suspiciously absent wall hangings and what seemed an unfinished exercise in carpentry lying bare-planked in the small backyard of 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione could see it from her favorite perch on the overstuffed couch in the den, through a cloudy window that overlooked the yard. Other things had changed. The Black family tree had disappeared entirely and the portrait of Sirius's mother appeared to have finally succumbed to some destructive jinx or hex. The canvass was torn through and tattered shreds hung from the frame, flagging ominously in her wake whenever Hermione passed it. Whatever happened to the subject in the painting, she did not know, nor did she care to linger and inspect the remaining corners of fabric for clues, for the heavy drape which usually hung over it had been taken down and Mrs. Black's outraged cries of infidelity no longer rang out at the slightest disturbance within the house.

It must have been Harry's doing. He had changed a few things in very subtle ways that were still not conservative enough to have slipped Hermione's notice. She had not seen Kreacher at all in the days since she arrived, and Hermione shuddered to think what Harry had done to rid himself of the last remaining servant of the house of Black. The row of plaques bearing the mounted heads of Kreacher's forebears had also vanished, and Hermione could not bring herself to believe the house elf would stand for such dishonor while still drawing breath. What had become of Kreacher she could not guess, but her mind roved dangerously each time she walked the corridor where a row of shapes bleached from the peeling paint held testament to the grotesque plaques that so recently hung there.

The house had hardly changed, but the people in it had changed considerably. Harry most clearly embodied that fact, as he had become quiet and reticent in the months since Dumbledore's death. Hermione could only begin to grasp how greatly it had affected him—even more so than Sirius's death, she thought, for surely Harry had felt closer to the old wizard than he had to any other person alive. He'd known their headmaster years longer than Sirius, after all, and had continued to look up to him for counsel and guidance in the time since his godfather's death. It seemed every influential figure in Harry's life was being picked off one by one. Hermione wondered who might be next in Voldemort's list of ways-to-hurt-The-Boy-Who-Lived, but found the thought all too depressing and instantly banished it from her mind.

She hugged her knees tighter to her chest where she sat on the couch in the darkened living area, determined not to think about her and Ron's place in the hierarchy of influence in Harry's life. There had always been the possibility of harm that went along with being Harry Potter's friend, but Hermione's affection and respect for Harry would not likely change, no matter how bent the Dark Lord became on destroying the boy. After all, it was why she had chosen to take up residence in Order headquarters for the remainder of the summer, to be near to her friend. And also, said a calculating and loathsome voice in the back of her head, to be near to the powerful wizards, witches and aurors that frequented Grimmauld Place. It was hard for Hermione to imagine any danger to her or Ron while staying within those walls. And just maybe, she thought, that was why Harry had sent the owl inviting her to stay over as long as she liked. She had not been at all surprised to find other people close to Harry's heart—Ron and the rest of the Weasleys, as well as Kinglsey Shacklebolt, Alastor Moody and even Nymphadora Tonks—as semi-permanent fixtures there as well. While together in the house, they created a sort of protective network, not only for Harry but for one another. Here with members of the Order of the Phoenix was one last place Hermione felt truly safe.

She brought the teacup from the arm of the couch where she'd balanced it and to her lips, breathing in the scents of mint and Echinacea that wafted toward her nose. She sipped and felt the effects of the tea—combined with a mild calming draught—going to work on her senses. There was a wonderful tingling sensation spreading outward from her chest, and with it Hermione knew would soon come a pleasant sleep free from dreams of her old headmaster and nightmares of his murder-at-large, the Death Eater Severus Snape. Restful and uninterrupted sleep had grown scarce since Hermione left the sheltered comforts of Hogwarts. While admittedly a great deal safer within the walls of Grimmauld Place, she had not yet been able to fully relax, and it was taxing her nerves.

Hermione realized as she gazed out of the filmy window at the yard where the starlight glowed on the planks of the curious and lopsided little hut that she had not felt rested in a very long time. She propped her elbow on her knee, rested her chin in her hand and blinked out the window, weariness growing in her as the gentle magic of the tea did its work. She thought for a moment about retiring to bed but pushed the thought away when she remembered the particularly nasty dream that had spurred her to seek out her favorite thinking spot and a cup of calming tea in the first place. Sleep was not a pleasant place for Hermione to be these nights. Instead, she balanced the half-empty teacup on the arm of the couch and wrapped her arms around her knees again. She sighed, resting the side of her head against the threadbare material covering the back of the couch, and tried in vain to keep her eyes open. The smell of the tea drifted over toward her again…

—Hermione jerked into alertness when she heard the front door of Grimmauld Place groan on its hinges. Surely no one would pay the Order a visit in the middle of the night? Hermione, ears straining, became very aware of the buzzing silence of that quiet house. Then she heard the door protest softly again and click shut. Hermione's heart was beating very fast as she instinctively reached for the tip of her wand, sticking up over the hem of her pajama pants where she had stowed it for her late-night venture from her room. She considered calling out to the sleeping occupants of the house for help, but stifled the urge when a more rational part of her brain attested there must be a perfectly sound reason for the midnight entrance. Perhaps a member of the Order had returned from an errand or night watch? Even so…

Hermione was sure she heard the creaking of a floorboard that bore an uncanny resemblance to the loose one just outside the entrance to the den. She realized she was holding her breath and she kept her eyes fixed on the yawning space beside the doorjamb, where she expected at any moment to see the dark figure of an intruder. She waited, but no one emerged from the shadows. The floorboard squeaked again, and then moments later Hermione could hear feet on the stairs, leading up into the second level of the house and leaving her unmolested on the couch. There was another soft click that Hermione took to mean a resident had indeed returned from some late-night errand, and she let out a deep breath, withdrawing her hand from where it hovered over her wand. Yes, she thought, probably only Harry coming in from one of his mysterious and ill-advised disappearances into the muggle streets beyond Grimmauld Place. It made sense; his room had lain vacant as she'd descended the stairs an hour ago to enjoy her cup of tea.

"You're getting paranoid, Hermione," she whispered to herself, starting at the croaking, unused quality of her voice at that hour.

She sighed and pushed herself up from the couch. Waving a hand at the teacup perched on the arm of the couch, she muttered a vanishing spell and smiled at her effective use of wandless magic. Then she exited the den, dodging the loose board as she took an immediate left, toward the staircase near the front of the house. Her eyes lingered on the coat hooks adorning the wall near the front door, for there was a dark shape hanging there that had appeared since Hermione left her room. It seemed to be an ordinary traveling cloak, though the shadows of the house transformed it into something more sinister. Hermione shivered and forced her eyes away.

At the top of the stairs, she made a discovery that caused her stomach to give a disquieting jolt. Harry's bedroom door—the second on the right—was wide open, and as she passed she found it still empty. She frowned into the gaping doorway for a moment and then shook her head, trying to clear the bewilderment. Must have been someone else coming home, she thought to herself, and turned to make her way toward the second set of stairs at the end of the hall. Her room was on the third level, and she found that she strangely had never desired for it to be nearer. The eeriness of the place was beginning to set her teeth on edge, the way it always did at that time of night.

As she approached the second flight of stairs, she noticed something strange and came to a halt outside a door on the far left—a room that she knew for a fact to be unused as of earlier that day when she had gone looking for Crookshanks and found him curled contentedly at the foot of a bed in this very same unused room. The door had been shut sometime during the last hour. As she stood there, Hermione had the strange, uncomfortable feeling of a person eavesdropping on someone in the next room. She creased her brow at the inexplicable sensation and made for the stairs, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder and back toward Harry's door, almost expecting him to be standing there, watching her snoop around his house in the dead of night. Again she found herself musing over her friend and the events in his life that had led him to seek comfort in wandering unguarded streets at night.

Yes, she thought as she ascended the stairs, the house had not changed at all. It had never been—and would never be—a place of happiness.


	2. Chapter 1

Another chapter? Already? I guess that's what happens when you don't feel the need to push yourself to post huge chapters every time. Man, I forgot how much fun a new fic can be. My faithful ACoF readers (all four of them) are going to start feeling rather cheated. Better go work on my other story now (it's going to be hard switching gears…).

Oh, and don't worry—Lupin's really going to make an appearance in this Hermione/Lupin story, I promise. In fact, I think the next chapter's going to be from his perspective. Won't that be fun, kids? Until then…

A foreword of advice here—"Every time a reader reviews, an author gets motivated to get up off her arse and write even faster."

_(coeptus)_

Hermione skipped down the stairs, her descent made urgent by the wonderful breakfast smells beginning to fill the house. Her feet seemed of an independent mind when they slowed as she passed that first door on her right, noting the way it had remained closed. The other occupants of the house were either stirring or had already risen to take in the morning, and Hermione was eager to meet her friends at the table. She hurried past Harry's still-empty room and flew down the last stairwell, her eyes coming to rest as she reached the floor upon the traveling cloak that had appeared on a hook near the door the previous night. At first the girl thought little of the development, recognizing it in the new light—as she'd suspected—as an ordinary, gray traveling cloak, though a bit worn and muddy at the hem and, it seemed—

Hermione stopped.

—The cloak was ripped in places, leaving frayed ends of cloth and bearing dark stains of what appeared to be blood. She felt inexplicably pulled toward the shabby garment and reached a hand out to inspect the fabric. Her fingertips explored one nasty-looking tear across the back of the cloak, tracing the jagged fringe and dragging over places where blood had matted the threads. The gears in her head churning frantically, Hermione glanced up the stairs over her shoulder and toward the door she could no longer see at the end of the hallway. Whoever had entered Grimmauld Place last night had at least recently been badly injured.

But Hermione could not consider the prospect for long, since Ginny Weasley appeared from the hallway at that moment and began to descend the stairs, pulling a hand carelessly through her fiery hair and using the other hand to cover a yawn. Not sure why she did it, Hermione quickly withdrew from her inspection of the cloak and tried to appear as though she had only just paused on the landing.

"Morning," she said brightly to her friend, allowing Ginny to catch up with her.

"Good morning, Hermione," the other girl said thickly through another yawn, obviously still fighting the clutches of sleep.

Hermione only briefly felt a stab of jealousy; she wished she was capable of sleep so thick that it clung to her like that. She put it from her mind and forced a smile, suggesting to her friend that they hurry up and catch the best parts of breakfast while they were still on the table and not inside the seemingly bottomless stomachs of the boys living in the house.

"I think I may draw blood if Fred and George have gotten at every last one of the sausages again this morning," Hermione said. "Of course your Mum could conjure up some more, but they never taste as good as when they're freshly made."

Ginny giggled.

The dining room was nearly full as the girls arrived, finding scattered places to sit among their friends and family members. Molly Weasley fussed lovingly over Ginny as she entered, muttering something about the "unseemly hour" at which her daughter chose to wake and ushering her to an empty seat beside Mad Eye (much to the young red-head's chagrin). It was with some surprise that Hermione spotted Harry near the head of the table, carrying on a mild conversation with the impressive and quiet presence of Kingsley Shacklebolt at his left. Hermione smiled at seeing her friend and made her way toward the empty seat at his right, the one beside Nymphadora Tonks.

She caught Ron's eye as she went. Sitting on the other side of the table, Ron nodded hopefully at her and Hermione waved back over the heads of the busily chatting and eating members of the Order. Ron looked slightly crestfallen for some reason as she continued on toward Harry. Hermione noticed there was seat lying vacant next to Ron as well. She pulled an apologetic expression and called, "Catch up in a bit," over the general volume of the room. There were things she needed to discuss with Harry, and her other friend would have to wait.

Hermione slipped onto the stool beside Harry and immediately began to load her plate, spooning out a pile of fluffy eggs from a nearby bowl, helping herself to links of sausage from a platter and grabbing a thick slice of dark brown bread that she made sure to lather with butter. Her hand reached for a bowl of fruit, grazing over a splotchy pear and a fat, rust-colored persimmon before settling on a bright apple.

At her right, Tonks turned her head to acknowledge the girl, saying, "Wotcher, 'Mione." Her short hair, which stuck up in the back and swept forward on the top of her head, was canary yellow that morning.

"Hello, Tonks," Hermione replied. "I like the new 'do," she said, pointing at the other girl's hair before taking a bite of the fruit's sweet flesh.

Tonks's eyes shot upward as if trying to look at it over her brow. "It's all right," she agreed, shrugging her shoulders modestly, although her electric blue orbs twinkled satisfactorily. "I'm thinking of toning it down a bit," she said, wrinkling her nose in concentration before the yellow of her hair darkened into an orange that gave a certain set of ginger twins sitting a few seats down at the table a run for their money.

Hermione made a face. "Good, but not nearly loud enough for you, Tonks," she laughed, lifting a fork and getting to work on her eggs.

The auror smiled and the orange tint receded from her hair until the canary yellow had returned.

"Much better!"

In a moment, Tonks was sufficiently distracted by a conversation starter from another Order member, and Hermione turned aside to speak with her friend, as she did so meeting with emerald green eyes that studied her from behind the round frames of his glasses. Harry was already looking at her, whatever discussion there'd been between him and Kingsley having obviously ended. He'd opened his mouth as if to say something when she turned on him. As soon as he saw her looking, Harry shut his mouth, and then opened it again, settling lamely for, "Hi, Hermione."

"Hi, Harry," she answered with a grin. She could not begrudge his listlessness. Indeed, after all her friend had been through, Hermione was pleased he still wanted to talk at all. He'd taken Sirius's death in anger and resentment, and then met Dumbledore's death the following year with an oddly silent calm. She could sense real grief in her friend for the old wizard, but it had not yet come boiling to the surface like after his godfather's passage through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. Instead, his grief for Dumbledore seemed to fester quietly several layers beneath his gathered exterior. Hermione was impressed he desired so much as to get out of bed every morning.

Or every night.

"Did you sleep well, Harry?" she asked, hoping to gently steer her dark-haired friend toward admitting the fact he'd taken to roaming outside headquarters at midnight. She swallowed another forkful of scrambled eggs in an effort to seem casual about the subject.

"Fair enough," he said with a vague lift of his shoulders. "A bit of insomnia—but who doesn't have a little trouble sleeping these days?"

She grinned half-heartedly and dropped her eyes to her plate. "That's true," she said mildly, "only…"

"What?"

"I…well, I was up last night too, Harry," she murmured, frowning down now at the sausage she was prodding with her fork. "I passed by your room twice, and it was empty. You're not…" She trailed off, finding it suddenly necessary to meet her friend's eyes again. "Harry," she tried, "you're not going out at nights, are you? Moody's already told you it's not a good idea," she went on quickly over any objection he might have attempted, "and I have to say I agree. We're all in this together, Harry, and we can't stand by while you endanger yourself, walking around unprotected in the muggle world."

Harry didn't jump on the defense immediately. He didn't object to her nosiness or deny the fact he had been slipping out or anything of the sort. He simply cracked a weary grin and said gently, "I'm not unprotected, Hermione. I've been taking some…supplementary defense lessons."

She gaped at him. "Be that as it may," she said, trying to sound diplomatic and concerned without driving her friend to irritation, "you shouldn't go out alone, Harry. You could easily undo everything the Order has worked for if you were to be caught unawares or outnumbered."

"—She's right," said a deep voice behind Harry. Kingsley Shacklebolt was bent over his breakfast plate, but he had not lifted his fork to eat in several moments and his dark head was turned slightly toward the young wizard beside him. Hermione wondered if he had ever not been eavesdropping on their conversation.

"You must be careful, Harry," Kingsley went on, gazing thoughtfully at the brown loaf of bread near his plate. "The Order can't afford for you to make a mistake—and most especially a reckless one that could have been prevented."

Hermione was holding in her breath. Leave it to Shacklebolt to line things out in such a blunt and commanding manner. She only hoped his words would not stir Harry to anger. She studied her friend's face, watching for the telltale signs of his temper. There were none. Harry only gave a little frown, keeping his eyes averting from both Hermione and Kingsley, and said, "I'll take it into consideration." He raised a cup to his lips and drank for a moment before finishing quietly with, "But in the end, this is my house, and I will come and go freely." He glanced at Hermione, the corners of his mouth twitching upward unconvincingly. "Thanks all the same for your concern," he told her.

Hermione bit her lip, forcing a lid down over her frustration. On some things, she reminded herself, the boy could not be reasoned with. She knew it had to be enough that he had at least listened and feigned polite disinterest. Still, she wished he would open his mind to hear the logic of her argument, and so she prodded, "Harry—"

"Forget it, okay," he snapped, a rare edge of anger having risen into his voice. "I want out once in a while. I'm not going to sit locked up in here all day like some kind of—dog."

The instant the word had left his mouth, it was as if someone had stretched a rubber band too tight. The tension in his features snapped quite suddenly and a heart-breaking kind of weariness rushed in to take its place. Harry was left there staring into empty space beside Hermione with his jaw hanging slightly open and his eyes unfocused.

Hermione could only find it within herself to feel pity for him. He had just—unwittingly, perhaps, if his look of stupefaction was any indication—perfectly compared himself with Sirius Black. She wanted nothing less than for him to become confined to Grimmauld Place to the point of hating it and everything to do with it. It was a fate she never wished on Harry, to become isolated and volatile, just like his godfather.

"If you would like to go out," said the quiet, composed voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt as easily as if he were not interrupting over Harry's exclamation, "someone from the Order can escort you. We have ways of communicating with one another that have proven failsafe in times of crisis. It would be considerably safer."

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief at Kingsley's quick thinking—if it had even been that. Perhaps, she thought, just another one of the man's abrupt observations delivered at exactly the right time. This was Harry's way out. He could escape the confines of Grimmauld Place and at the same time remain under the watchful protection of the Order. This was just what Hermione needed to set her mind at ease about her friend. If only he would take the bait…

"Yeah, thanks, Kingsley," Harry murmured absently, the light returning to his eyes as he shook himself of his stupor. Then he went back to his breakfast with about as much enthusiasm as Ron usually showed for his studies.

Hermione let him eat in peace for a while, as she'd caused him enough irritation for one morning. But there was still something nagging at her very softly, and she could not leave the table without satisfying her curiosity.

"Harry," she said after a moment, "has Grimmauld Place received any new guests since the Weasleys and I arrived?"

"Huh?" He looked up at her blandly.

Hermione clarified, "Last night. I—I thought I heard the front door," she said without having to lie, though the extent of her story remained concealed behind a half-truth. She did not bother mentioning the way she had almost felt like a stalked animal, straining to pick up the intruder's every sound. "I was just wondering whether you've received another guest, or if it was all in my head," Hermione finished.

Harry blinked at her. "Oh," he said, creasing his brow, "it must have been Lupin. He's been due back for a few days now, come to think of it. I was starting wonder what had happened to him."

Hermione only distantly registered the sudden lack of conversation in the seat to her right, but that knowledge seemed trivial in light of the revelation that slight, unimposing Professor Lupin had been the one hesitating on the creaking floorboard outside the living room the previous night. It hardly seemed characteristic of the quiet and honest man who used to be Hermione's Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher to sneak around a darkened house at night. She frowned and instead of voicing her surprise, simply wondered, "Due back?"

Harry lifted his eyebrows at her. "Well, he does sort of live here, you know," he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He's been on a mission for more than a week now and we were expecting him back this last weekend." He furrowed his brow again and added, "I hope everything went well."

Then Hermione remembered the traveling cloak hung by the door. She shuddered at the thought of the rips in the bloodstained fabric and suddenly her heart plummeted. Was the professor all right? Was he injured badly? Did he need assistance? Remus Lupin had always been Hermione's favorite professor, even though he had only taught her one year out of her Hogwarts career. She felt slightly foolish for not having anticipated he'd be staying over at Grimmauld Place; she felt personally responsible knowing he was somehow wounded.

"What mission?" she asked, failing to resist the compulsion to withhold her suspicion he'd likely been attacked.

"A mission," growled Alastor Moody's voice from across the table, "of Order business and nothing that concerns you." He'd fixed Hermione sternly with the one eye as he scowled over his emptied plate. His magical eye, however, had rolled up to one side and currently gazed out the back of the ex-auror's head.

Hope rose in Hermione as she thought maybe Mad-Eye was seeking out the newly occupied room at the end of the hall upstairs—the one whose door had not yet opened. Good, she thought to herself as a tension she had not realized she'd been holding in eased and she melted slightly into her seat. If Moody knew of the Professor's condition, he was going to be fine. Someone was sure to look after him, Hermione thought, whatever state he was in after his errand.

Movement near her elbow brought Hermione back into the moment, and she realized Tonks had stood without finishing her breakfast.

"I should get to the office," the auror murmured absently with glassy eyes before turning to head for the door without further pleasantries.

"Yes, those of us with day jobs ought to be getting a move on," Arthur Weasley announced from the corner of the table as he rose. "Behave yourselves while I'm gone," he said to the general procession at the table, although Hermione knew he was speaking specifically to his children.

"No worries, father dear," George said as he stood, followed closely by his twin.

"We tend to be on our most professional behavior while at the shop," Fred agreed at his side.

"Wait a minute," George said, giving the other an almost convincingly scandalized look. "You mean we're not _always_ on our most professional behavior?"

Their eyes sparkled with mirth as they grinned at one another. Then, with two loud pops, they had disapparated from the dining room. Hermione could not guess why they had bothered; it wasn't as if they'd be able to apparate anywhere far from within the house. Sure enough, the sound of the front door opening and closing upstaged their dramatic departure from the table.

Molly made a show of rolling her eyes.

The table broke up after that and people began moving off to important business of the day. Ginny had quickly found her way around the table, having dragged Ron along with her. She caught up with Hermione and Harry, who was gazing oddly into the bottom of his cup without paying much attention. Ginny divulged to them a wonderful idea she had cooked up over the course of breakfast—an outing that included the four friends browsing particular stores in Diagon Alley for much of the afternoon, in search of new robes and school things, Ginny explained. "School things" was, of course, code for "whatever we sodding want," and Hermione would not put it past Molly Weasley to pick up on the subtle nuances of her daughter's cryptic speech. Molly made no objections, however, but Moody—having overheard the plans—immediately volunteered another member of the Order to accompany the friends. Kingsley Shacklebolt graciously did not complain about being assigned to baby-sit on his day off. He merely informed the teens of the simple fact it was a rare day off for him and left the rest, _so don't make me regret having to watch you all day_, up to their imaginations to fill in.

While Ron stood beside the table, looking slightly stunned at the prospect of having to shop all day and Harry muttered something about, "Wouldn't mind the fresh air," Ginny seized Hermione by the arm and whisked her upstairs for the obligatory change of wardrobe and critical glances in the mirror. Hermione did not particularly care to switch her outfit; she felt comfortable enough in the jeans and pink shirt she wore. Neither was she looking forward to primping hair or applying eyeshadow alongside her friend in the big mirror in Ginny's room. She was just going out with Harry and Ron, after all, and Hermione hardly saw the point in all the fuss. She was, however, happy to oblige Ginny and at least keep her company while the redhead sated her need to beautify. Ginny's friendship meant a lot to Hermione, and she would endure a degree of girlish vanity to keep her friend happy. Hermione would refuse as soon as it came down to eyeshadow, however. Hateful stuff.

She was so tuned to the bubbly mood of her excitedly chatting friend as they ascended the first flight of stairs and crossed toward the second, Hermione entirely ignored the peculiar urge to lower her voice near the end of the hallway. Her feet did not falter in stride as she passed the last door on the left.


	3. Chapter 2

Now, that's more like it. At least several days between updates. It was getting far too long, anyway. Once the novelty wears off and this becomes another fic in the lineup, it'll probably be several weeks (or months) between chapters. Let's hope it never gets that stale, shall we? I'll give myself a little grace, here, in that I was writing chapters two and three at the same time, just because I had enough inspiration to jump into a particular upcoming scene. Shouldn't be much longer before the next installment's up, as it's already half-written.

_(coeptus)_

He had felt sleep leaving him for some time, had felt the pull of wakefulness on his eyelids and the weight of hunger settling in his belly ever since he first began to hear that awful rasping sound. The dry, shuddering noise so much like an old muggle radiator was enough to wake the dead. Remus Lupin knew it would have sufficiently roused him long before, had he not felt like the survivor of a train wreck attempting to lift himself from the tracks. His body was very heavy and seemed to have sunk a great deal into the mattress, as he could not muster enough energy to so much as roll over.

And no matter how he tried, that damn rasping would not let him sleep. It plagued his semi-conscious thoughts, which strangely kept returning to a hot, stinking pit in the earth where people lived clinging insipidly to remaining vestiges of their humanity. It was a place of haunted cries, of the sweet stench of fetid meat. It was a place Lupin hated most in the world. As his head swam with thoughts of it, he found himself struggling suddenly to rise through the haze toward consciousness, if only to abandon memory of the den.

An odd tingling began to set into his joints as he ascended to the upper reaches of sleep. The sensation intensified into a dull sort of pressure Lupin realized must have been pain. There was warmth strewn about him in erratic places—across his back, on the left side of his face, his chest and arms and one ankle—that slowly began to flare with the acute burning of split skin. The uneven rasping was rattling between his ears now, and Lupin groaned at it to go away. His action brought about several unanticipated effects. Firstly the rasping gave slightly, fusing itself into the sound of the groan in the back of his throat. He could not think on that peculiar development long, for the second effect took hold as his side erupted with pain.

Lupin held his breath as the pain receded, noting with little shock that the rasping of his labored breathing ceased momentarily. The fire in his ribs had gone, leaving a dull ache in its place. He sighed, sinking deeper onto the sheets, which he realized he had not bothered to turn down the night before. He shifted where he lay on his stomach atop the comforter, ignoring various protests of his body. He felt his traveling clothes clinging to his skin. He was even still wearing his shoes.

With a grunt of pain and a tremendous effort, Lupin rolled onto his side and pushed himself up from the mattress and into a sitting position. Soon the stars that had exploded in his field of vision along with the renewed stab in his side began to fade. He raised a hand and gingerly felt the tender place along his ribs, hissing involuntarily as he did so. There was definitely a fracture in there, if not worse. He wondered who in the house might be talented at mending bones. He considered Alastor Moody and shuddered at the thought of his tactless habits as a wizard and a housemate in general and how they might affect his disposition as a healer. His thoughts swept only briefly over Nymphadora Tonks before a sudden cold sweat forced him to consider his last options. It was up to Kingsley Shacklebolt with his steady hand, he told himself. Or Harry.

Lupin sighed, swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. For a moment, he stood swaying slightly on his feet. His ankle was burning white-hot where he assumed he'd received more than a flesh wound several nights back in the den. He glanced about the room before remembering he'd left his wand on the nightstand. He pocketed it and, as he was still dressed, limped quietly from the room and shut the door behind him. The house was silent and quite dark, and Lupin assumed from the faint glow in the sky beyond any windows he passed the time was nearing dawn.

He descended the stairs slowly and made his way automatically down the hall toward the living room, where he thought he might rest before venturing into the dining room for something to eat. As he stepped on the creaky floorboard—now matter how many years he'd come back to Grimmauld Place, he could never remember it—and into the living area he saw the wide, grizzly form of Alastor Moody standing near the window. The ex-auror was looking out the one cloudy window at the small yard, his broad back facing the entryway. He did not turn his head or so much as move when the other man entered, but Lupin froze on the threshold and shivered as he imagined Moody's magical eye sweeping over him.

A second later, Mad-Eye growled, "Well, if it isn't sleeping beauty…"

Had Lupin's body not felt as though it had recently encountered a meat processor, he would have liked to make a witty comment about having missed the prince's tender kiss. If he'd been in higher spirits, he wouldn't even have minded Alastor's inevitable retort of, the next time he saw Kingsley he'd let him know Lupin was looking for him.

Instead, Lupin simply grunted and made his way slowly toward the other wizard. He could make out a little more detail of the ex-auror as he approached, but the waning moon had already slipped low in the sky beyond the window and the stars were winking out as the dimmest glow of daylight grew toward the east. The light that pooled in from the window was faint and blue, and Lupin found it difficult to make out any features of Mad-Eye's scarred weather-beaten face. He was terribly aware, however, of the magical eye following him as he approached. It was sickening for him to watch the steely blue orb appear in the corner of Moody's eye and slowly rotate in its socket as Lupin drew up alongside him.

"How long was I out?" we wondered, startled by the abused sound of his voice in his throat. He secretly dreaded Alastor's answer.

"Over a day. I would have woken you sooner," Moody muttered sardonically as he continued to gaze through the window with his other eye, "but you just looked so peaceful up there. And anyway, if all the noise _they_ made didn't wake you up, my sweet nothings were certain not to do the trick."

"_They_?"

"The Weasleys and their brood arrived last week," he explained in his traditionally indelicate manner. "The girl's quiet enough, I suppose. Even though the twins have that store of theirs to run nowadays, they manage to make frequent appearances and enough noise for the lot of them. Insufferable pranksters."

"The kids are here?" he echoed lamely.

"It seems Master Harry invited them a bit early this summer. The Granger girl came with them," he explained in his rasping growl, still watching Lupin curiously from the corner of his eye. "They'll be staying with us indefinitely, of course," he added, his eye sweeping toward the ceiling as if to check the new headcount of Grimmauld Place before returning to its study of the younger wizard. "It's enough to drive a man to the bottle."

Lupin blinked at him, unsure what he could have meant. "I need a bath," he observed dryly. "And perhaps something to eat first. I'll just…" he gestured toward the dining room door and spun as if to make for it.

"Good idea," Mad-Eye muttered, for the first time that morning turning to face Lupin with his magical eye completely stationary in his head. "Molly's in there now. She can have a look at that rib of yours."

Lupin recalled a handful of past stories—mostly told by Fred and George—of Molly Weasley's roughshod tendencies as a household healer. The leaden feeling in his gut convinced Lupin to abandon the idea. Molly was an incredible woman and a loving mother and wife, but her strict and overbearing maternal habits tended to grate on his nerves. He could only handle Molly in small increments, and only when the circumstance did not present the likelihood of being manhandled. He had no desire to aggravate an already tender injury.

Lupin blinked at the closed doorway across the room. He then spun in the opposite direction and took one limping step the other way, back toward the entrance and the staircase at the front of the house.

"Suppose you'll be wanting this back," Moody's voice stopped him, and Lupin glanced over his shoulder to find the other man holding out a fist that was clenched over a bundle of dark-colored material. Lupin took the item from him before he recognized it as his torn and bloodstained traveling cloak. He vaguely recalled hanging it on the peg as he entered Grimmauld Place several nights ago.

"Don't leave things like that lying around," Moody growled, and Lupin didn't need any more light to make out the calculating look the ex-auror was giving him. Moody finished with, "Certain people not initiated into the Order might get ideas. And on that note—you should really do something about your face before the kids come down for breakfast. You look like hell."

By the time Lupin had made his way upstairs and to the bathroom where he began laboriously peeling his clothes from his aching limbs, he had an idea of how derelict he must have appeared. His own reflection was startling to look at, with those three fresh scratches lining his left cheek, trailing off of his jaw, chin and across his lips. His skin was ghostly pale, as if sickly and kept indoors too long, and revealed many more cuts and scrapes as Lupin stripped tattered articles of clothing. He had not realized how torn and bloody his clothing was; now that he'd properly seen it he felt a rush of gratitude toward Moody for pointing it out. It could have been a real shock for one of the girls to see, especially Ginny, who was the youngest. And Hermione…well, Lupin told himself, she'd always been stouter than she seemed.

All thoughts of a bath having fled his mind, Lupin spent a good while combing over his shirt and trousers, murmuring charms under his breath and pointing his wand at various stains and tears until the material was clean and whole. Then he turned his attention on his reflection, and sighed. With almost lazy movements, he flicked his wand at the lacerations one by one and watched the skin close over raw flesh, leaving delicate white scars. They were werewolf injuries, he knew, and unlikely to heal without a trace, even with the help of magic. He would always be disfigured by the mark of his race. Part of the curse.

Lupin paused over the purplish shadow on his left ribcage. With a flick of his wand, the teeth marks vanished, leaving a curved array of white spots where the flesh had been broken. Another wave of his wand removed the deep pool of a bruise beneath the skin. He set the tip of his wand against the place where the bruise had been—and grimaced. The sting of the slight pressure of his wand against the rib, combined with the reddish mark that rose to the top of his skin to meet it, told Lupin something was still busily bleeding in there. He knew little about mending broken bones and even less about setting those that had lain broken for several days.

Lupin let out a breath he had not realized he'd been holding. He lifted the tip of his wand up off the skin of his side and moved on to other complaints, most of which yielded under his ministrations. There were only two areas—several long parallel scratches across his back and the deep gashes in his ankle—that refused to heal over at his murmured charm. Lupin was not surprised, recalling all too clearly the occupant of the den that had delivered the blows. He had almost guessed beforehand Fenrir would have somehow charmed his own fangs and claws to deal injury impervious to magic. It was why he had chosen to avoid the alpha werewolf's fury for the remainder of his stay with the pack.

Lupin blinked wearily at his reflection, carelessly flicked his wand toward his foot and muttered, "_Ferula_," at the wound on his ankle, which was suddenly wrapped tightly in bandages. The cuts on his back were difficult to reach, as he had to point his wand at them and they were at slightly differing angles across the sinews and muscle of his back. He did his best with the help of a glance over his shoulder into the mirror, pointed his wand and gasped, "_Ferula_," over the pains that shot through his back and stabbed between his ribs at the movement. The pressure of the conjured bandages hugged his torso. It took some of the sting out of the wounds, but they throbbed in his flesh nevertheless.

Lupin slumped forward and discovered that he'd stumbled against the wall. He stood there with his chest pressed to the cool wall and allowed the worst of the pain to wash over him. He imagined it running down his flesh and leaving his body through the soles of his feet. When he'd gathered himself again, he opened his eyes without any recollection of having closed them.

Bathing was necessarily out of the question. Most of his cuts were gone now, but the remaining ones were the worst, and he shuddered to think of water seeping through the bandages and coming into contact with raw flesh. There was still a stiffness of his joints that no amount of charms or potions would ease, and a tiredness that had lodged itself somewhere in Lupin's chest. He had an idea it had coiled itself possessively like a parasite around his heart. If he died of anything, he thought, it would not be of his wounds or the dangers of his particular work for the Order. It would be of sheer and insatiable exhaustion.

Lupin sighed, straightening from his slouch against the wall. If a bath was out of the picture, then he knew he would need to clean up some other way. He waved his wand casually over his skin, lifting patches of grime and dirt and hoping it did something for the smell of the den that seemed to cling to him. He then proceeded to carefully and achingly slip back into his clothes. He glanced over himself in the mirror, musing as he smoothed several wayward locks of hair over his forehead that the illusion was convincing enough. He hardly looked shabbier than usual.

He left the bathroom and made his way downstairs after tossing his traveling cloak over his still-made bed. He judged from the muffled din of raised voices and the suggestive smells hanging in the air that the occupants of the house were awake and in the dining room. Breakfast must have been underway. Lupin was surprised how long he had been at work cleaning up his appearance; morning light was already flooding in through the windows.

He crossed the living area and entered the dining room, finding it full of people who were settling down at the table and helping themselves to the breakfast spread. Several members of the Order looked up at Lupin's arrival and Molly's voice cut over the general noise as she swept toward him.

"Remus!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms wide to welcome him. "Oh, we're glad you were able to join us."

Lupin choked on the slightly resentful pang he felt at her patronizing him. Although most likely well-meant, her words had shone a certain spotlight on his overdue presence and—less visibly, but nonetheless there—the issue of his long absence. He had no desire for discussion to approach the subject of where he'd been those last days. He did not appreciate the added attention to his state, and he wanted nothing more than to simply wave her off. But Lupin would not behave churlishly, no matter how irritated he felt, or how much pain he was in.

Instead, he managed a grin and replied, "Good morning, Molly."

"There's a place for you down here," she told him with a wave of her hand toward an empty seat at the other side of the room.

With a glance at the table that he concealed in the polite nod he gave to her, Lupin discerned the vacant seat was far enough away from a certain bubble-gum-pink-haired woman. "Thank you," he said to Molly as he made for the indicated chair. Several Order members, including Kingsley Shaklebolt, acknowledged him with a lift of their brows or a courteous nod as he passed by them. Lupin returned their salutations, grateful the slight pause of conversation following his entrance did not last long. People were already turning back to more important things by the time he reached his seat.

He found a chair between George Weasley (who said, "I'm Fred, mate," when Lupin murmured a, "Good morning, George," to him) and a plump little witch whom he recalled had been recruited from the staff at St. Mungo's but whose purpose in taking breakfast at headquarters Lupin could not imagine. Perhaps she could have a look at his rib, he thought, provided he could remember her name to ask her. But then he'd always been a bit reserved when it came to strangers. Lupin thought better of it and gave up the search for her name from his memory.

He sank into the seat, wincing slightly when the chair pressed his back and hoping no one had noticed. But when he looked up to consider breakfast, his eyes met with those of Hermione Granger, who had obviously seen his hesitation. She was staring at him in concern with her brow tense as she bit on her lip in a way that made Lupin's stomach tighten oddly. He acknowledged her with a dip of his head and what he hoped was a reassuring grin. Something in her face brightened, but the concern did not disappear. Ron Weasley had begun to talk at her shoulder, and Hermione looked mercifully away from Lupin.

Breakfast was uneventful. The issue of his absence did not come up, but mainly because Lupin found no conversational partners. At his left, George and Fred were busily discussing a large order of skiving snackboxes they had already received in anticipation of the looming school year. At his right the plump healer from St. Mungo's kept quiet except for an occasional grunt of approval that she delivered to the other conversations going on around her. The breakfast party was just beginning to go its own way when Lupin's hopes of avoiding unwanted attention were shattered.

"Professor Lupin," said a youthful voice over the fading murmurs of the occupants leaving the dining room.

Lupin, frozen in the act of rising from his chair, glanced about to locate the source of the voice. He discovered it had issued from Hermione, who was currently picking her way around the table, fighting the steady flow of people leaving for work. There was urgency in her brown eyes and Lupin could not ignore the way she quickly tucked thick curls of her hair behind one ear as she drew near him. Ron Weasley was struggling after her around the table; he had fallen behind and Lupin wondered if Hermione knew it. He was also vaguely aware of Mad-Eye's presence lingering obtrusively in a corner near the door for a moment too long.

Lupin rose properly from his place at the table and turned to meet Hermione. His ankle burned under the weight he gingerly placed on it. "Hello, Miss Granger," he said politely, forcing a smile. "How is your summer?"

Her answering smile was somewhat weak and very unconvincing, but Lupin expected it mirrored his own.

"It's good," she said immediately, but her breath caught and she added quietly, "considering…" She rather tastefully, Lupin thought, left the comment unfinished and instead explained, "It's much better now that I can be with friends and see familiar faces."

He nodded his agreement. He almost gathered the breath to say he thought she'd grown since they last met, but feared the compliment might be taken poorly. In truth he had not paid the girl much mind in quite a while, and doubted they'd had so much as a discussion in a good year or so. She had definitely grown. He kept his silence and saw form the corner of his eye that Ron had pulled up short at a polite distance behind Hermione.

"We started to worry about you," the girl went on, apparently oblivious to the arrival of her friend. "Harry told me you'd returned, but we didn't hear a sound from your room all day."

Lupin appreciated her use of the word "we." It implied others cared, as well. But he had no illusions. "I'm afraid I was feeling a bit under the weather," he said carefully. "Thank you for the concern."

Her brows tensed inward, creating lines on her forehead and giving her that furiously thoughtful look he'd seen dozens of times as her teacher years before. It was the expression she adopted when she considered answers to his in-class promptings or particularly challenging exam questions. It had been amusing and disarmingly cute when she was a child in her third year at Hogwarts. And now for some reason it seemed to make his palms inexplicably moist.

Lupin was painfully aware of the shape of Hermione's mouth and the hint of white teeth that crowned into view from behind her upper lip as she said, "Professor? Are you all right?"

He shook himself of wayward thoughts and lied, "I'm fine."

In a small voice that sounded peculiarly guilty she added, "I hope you weren't in too much danger while you were away."

Something in him recoiled. "I'd rather not talk about that," he snapped, instantly sorry he had.

Her expression fell. "Oh," she said, "right. Order business."

He held out his hands and quickly said, "On the contrary, Hermione. You would be one of the very few people in this house I would entrust that sort of information to." Ignoring the pleasure that rose in him at her satisfied smile, Lupin went on, "But quite simply, I would prefer not to discuss it—"

"—'Er-my-nee, come on," drawled Ron's impatient voice. "Mum's leaving soon and I want to visit Fred and George at work, too."

A flicker of annoyance passed across her features and was gone just as soon. "The shop will still be there in a moment, Ronald," she said as she turned briefly to him. "Wait with Ginny and Harry until then."

The look of surprise and hurt—and poorly concealed fixation—that came to Ron's face sent a chill of familiarity coursing through Lupin. It was the exact same look Nymphadora had given him a hundred times before.

Hermione must have seen what she'd done, for she added over her shoulder, "I'm sorry, Ron, but can't it please wait?" He muttered something as he shuffled off, and she grinned apologetically at Lupin and said, "Sorry about that, Professor."

"It's all right," he told her. "I don't want to keep you from your friends; you'd better run along."

She smiled and somewhat reluctantly said, "I'll see you later, then, Professor Lupin." Then she seemed to hesitate and her smile weakened. "You don't…" She shook her head and said, "Forgive me, but…you don't have to go back—to wherever you've been, that is—right away…do you?"

Lupin blinked at her. Could she possibly be that concerned? He would never put it past Hermione Granger to worry herself sick for the sake of a friend, but he had not expected to earn the same treatment.

"No," he replied, catching all too late the curious inflection he'd placed on the word. "Not for a while, at least," he explained, almost certain he saw some tension or another disappear from her face.

Hermione smiled—sincerely, this time. "I'm glad," she said, reaching out for his upper arm. He felt her fingers squeeze gently through the fabric of his shirt as she added, "Take care of yourself today, Professor."

Lupin found that his mouth had become too dry to form a reply. He merely nodded and hoped he was returning her smile, because he could not seem to feel any part of his body except for the place on his arm where she was touching him. Hermione withdrew her hand from his arm, and Lupin felt as if his stomach had plummeted through the floorboards. He watched her turn and walk away, eventually joining her friends at the doorway and stepping out into the living room.

He did not return to his senses until he found himself under a cold shower in the upstairs bathroom a moment later. He grimaced as the water stung his wounds through the bandages, glad at least to have something to focus on other than the memory of her smile as she held his arm.


	4. Chapter 3

Sorry this chapter's a bit long. I just felt the treatment of the content required particular care. I really enjoyed writing it, because I love toying with characters' emotions like this. I'm evil. Oh, and I started reading HBP again. Wowsa. Maybe should have done that first. I've a feeling there are already loads of errors. Sorry about that.

_(coeptus)_

Hermione rolled over onto her side for the fifth time since waking that night. She sighed, trying to disentangle her thoughts from the sinister clutches of that awful dream. In her mind, she was still standing inside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, watching with detached interest while Fred demonstrated a prototype of his and George's newest joke shop novelty. He held what appeared to be a normal remembrall between his fingers, though he was explaining its deviant purpose.

"_It's really a disapparatus_," he said. "_Fling it at the ground between your feet and it releases a heavy cloud of green smoke—_"

"—_Allowing you to disapparate right from under the noses of all your teachers!_" George added.

Hermione was just about to open her mouth in protest, when she realized someone else was already calmly explaining the impossibility of apparating or disapparating within the walls of Hogwarts. It was someone with a deep and wizened voice and penetrating blue eyes that sparkled at the twins from over his half-moon spectacles.

"_Oh, we're taking care of that problem, mate_," Fred replied. "_There's only one kink left._"

"_Yeah_," George chimed in, "_the smoke released by the disapparatus has a nasty tendency to kill anyone standing in it_."

"_Watch this_," Fred said, hurling the object at the feet of the old wizard with the gentle voice, who fell instantly. When the greenish cloud cleared, he was laying in a heap, dead on the floor of the joke shop. Hermione wanted to scream for help, but her voice seemed frozen in her throat and she tried with no avail to shape the sound in her mouth. Fred and George laughed over the dead wizard's body, except their voices had changed and now they were both wearing Death Eater masks and long black cloaks. The nearest one—who had been Fred a moment before—removed his mask to reveal a face white and baleful as a naked skull between a frame of greasy black hair. Snape's lip upturned in a sneer as he glared down at Dumbledore's lifeless body.

—Hermione's eyes snapped open at the vivid recollection of her nightmare, all thoughts of sleep abandoned. She sighed again and watched a tall tree branch sway beyond her bedroom window. Moonlight etched the bark and all the leaves and Hermione imagined there would be quite a view from her thinking perch on the couch downstairs. Shrugging off the covers, the girl gave a slight tremor as the cool night air hit the bare skin of her legs. She cast around for her wand in the dark and then found her pajama bottoms where she'd tossed them across a chair in the corner. After pulling the cotton leggings on, Hermione tucked her pale wand into its customary place. The waistband hugged the slender yew stick against her skin.

She made her way quietly down both flights of stairs and across to the living room, where she stepped over the creaky floorboard and into the threshold. The furniture nearest the large, cloudy window was outlined in light from the waning moon. Already Hermione could feel the tranquilizing effects of the sight of the patch of moonlit grass in the yard and the calming tea her brain associated with it. She took several strides toward her couch and paused, for a moment drinking in the peace of her favorite spot in the house—the only spot of Grimmauld Place she really liked.

She had just decided to sink down on the sofa when a slightly hoarse voice over her shoulder said, "You too, Miss Granger?"

She wheeled around, realizing only when her feet were planted again that she must have drawn her wand. Her slightly shaking fingers were squeezing the end and the tip had come to point squarely at the man standing in the shadows against a wall only a few steps away.

"Easy," said the voice as the man held out his palms and put one foot forward, stepping into the soft moonlight. Hermione found herself looking into the plain and honest face of Professor Lupin. He did not appear frightened or alarmed by her wand thrust in his direction; he only gave a curious lift of his brows and kept his palms raised as if to fend off her attack.

The girl let out an explosive breath and immediately lowered her wand. "Professor, you startled me," she gasped, clutching at her chest and trying to still the frantic beating of her heart.

"A grave error, I see," the professor observed dryly, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Forgive me, Miss Granger; I was merely asking whether you had difficulty sleeping as well. I would have alerted you to my presence sooner, but you looked so…" His voice trailed off and his mouth seemed to work over silent words before finally choosing, "focused," although the girl had the peculiar feeling it was not what he'd wanted to say.

She blinked at him. "Just your average bout of insomnia, is all," she said, shoving her wand into its proper place at her hip. "I, er—I thought I might come down here to unwind a bit," she rattled off, too afraid his opinion of her would diminish to mention a nightmare.

"Ah," he replied, nodding absently although his eyes continued to bore into her own, as if searching for fault. She had never before appreciated the strength of his jaw or the way the corners of his thin mouth naturally upturned in a small grin. The deeply-etched smile lines that began at the corners of his wide nose had always been a fixture of his patient and familiar face; tonight, however, they seemed strangely charming in addition to the stubble that still adorned his cheeks from earlier that day. For the first time, Hermione recognized something handsome in his plain face, and the thought startled her. Here the poor professor probably wanted nothing more than for her to go and leave him in peace, and all she could do was stand there thinking about that stubble of his and how it would feel against her chin and upper lip if they kissed…

Hermione was suddenly embarrassingly aware of the way her spaghetti-strapped nightshirt clung to her body. Professor Lupin had always been so courteous and presentable; she wondered what he must think of her standing promiscuously-clad in the living room in the middle of the night (as well as what he would think if he knew of the alarming things that kept intruding on her thoughts). She thanked her foresight to slip on the pajama pants (at home in her parents' house she might have felt enough at ease to wander downstairs for a glass of water in only her shirt and panties) and imagined for one staggering second how much more awkward this moment could have been if she hadn't done at least that.

She crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the fluttery feeling of her stomach, and asked, "What about you, professor? What are you doing here?"

He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and replied with a turn of his head toward the window, "I enjoy the view at night." Gazing thoughtfully out into the yard, he went on, "It's the trees. I find it reassuring, the way most of them have been in the same spot before this house first stood. And they'll continue to be here long after I've forgotten this conversation." Professor Lupin's profile seemed forlorn and so much older. He could not be forty, she thought, and yet he looked so tired and sad. She followed his gaze through the window to see if she could find some of the reassurance he saw in the trees. All she glimpsed were dark, towering shapes that obscured the moonlight.

"I don't know," she murmured, trying to ignore the way he'd turned back from the window, bringing his eyes to rest on her. "I like the moonlight on the grass, but the trees are sort of frightening."

"Anything that's bigger than you is bound to seem frightening," he said quietly.

Finding something strangely comforting in that statement, Hermione turned back to look at him. The professor was gazing warmly at her, although something in his intent eyes made her shiver. Her arms slid further up her chest.

"Well," he said at last, "I'll leave you to your thoughts. A good thinking spot is hard to come by at Grimmauld Place. I'd hate to be the one to keep you from yours." He dipped his head to her and said, "Good night, Miss Granger."

She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped when she saw him turn to walk away, hobbling awkwardly on his left foot. All thoughts of her own discomfort at the situation dissolved. "Professor," she gasped, "you're still limping!"

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, as if realizing he had just stepped on a landmine and wishing he could take back the last moment of his life. "So I am," he said in what Hermione recognized as mock surprise when he'd opened his eyes again.

"Professor Lupin," she said, taking a step toward him and hesitating when he shot her a curious look, "hasn't anyone…that is, no one's taken care of your injuries yet? Not even Mrs. Weasley? Or Tonks?"

She almost thought he flinched, but he replied quickly, "Nevermind. It's nothing for you to worry about."

But Hermione _was_ worried. The professor was obviously in a great deal of pain, as she thought she'd glimpsed that morning at the breakfast table, and no one in the house had as much as spared a thought for his health. He was in need of some sort of treatment, and he seemed to be very tightlipped about it.

"Professor," she wondered, "what happened to you?"

"Nothing unusual," he said evasively. "I've just been, er—" he actually laughed, "—one acquainted with the night."

Hermione's chest tightened suddenly. In a very small voice she asked, "What did you say?"

His expression sobered. "Acquainted with the night," he said, as if it explained all. When she continued to stare at him, he went on, screwing up his face as if trying to remember something. "Let's see…'I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet,'" he recited with a distant look in his eyes, "'when far away an interrupted cry came over houses from another street, but not to call me back or say good-bye; and further still at an unearthly height, one luminary clock against the sky proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right. I have been one acquainted with the night.'" His eyes focused again and immediately found hers in the darkness. He said, "It's from a poem by—"

"Robert Lee Frost," she finished breathlessly.

"How did you…?"

Hermione shook herself, forcing the fog from her mind. "Oh—I had to memorize Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening when we did American poetry in primary school," she said dismissively.

He put his head a slight angle and studied her appraisingly. "Must have been some primary school," he muttered.

"It was a private prep school," she went on, her clasped hands fidgeting nervously on her chest. "We studied a lot of classics, as well as some modern literature. Of course," she added with a self-conscious laugh, realizing she ought to shut up, "that was well before the owl came from Hogwarts."

He smiled at her and said, "It's like you, Miss Granger, to have put an emphasis on your education from such an early age."

"My parents want the best for me."

"Of course they do." Even the natural smile of his lips seemed to have faded.

They lapsed into silence for a moment, and the girl began to doubt he found the same odd comfort in it, for he had taken to shifting his weight on his feet, though she could only imagine the pain it must have caused him, if that limp of his was any indication.

At last he glanced away and said, "Hermione," in a voice that sounded as though it belonged to someone much younger. Not quite meeting her eyes, he asked, "You wouldn't know how to mend bones, would you?"

She lifted her brows at him. "Professor," she asked, a hint of the alarm she felt having crept into her voice, "are you all right?"

"A little worse for wear, I'm afraid," he told her. "I think I may have broken a rib."

Hermione tensed her brow but said nothing as she tried to recall a specific bit of information. "Hmm," she said, biting absently at her lip, "it should be a simple enough charm. I read about it in _A Practical Guide to Household Magic_ during the winter holidays last year."

Professor Lupin chuckled softly, a look of resigned amusement dancing in his hazel eyes. Hermione bristled at his laughter, feeling scandalized that he would find anything funny about her wishing to help him.

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," the professor murmured, the mirth having left his eyes, which somehow seemed grayer than a moment before and now looked very tired. "Nothing escapes your attention."

Well, that was a bit better. Hermione pushed the hair out of her face and withdrew her wand from where she'd tucked it into the hem of her pajama pants, trying to look like a professional instead of someone who had never before uttered the spell she was about to use.

He must have seen some of the hesitation in her face, for Professor Lupin said gravely, "I have utter faith in you, my dear."

Hermione averted her eyes from his face and tried to conceal the thrill of surprise—and inexplicable pleasure—she felt at him calling her thus. An innocuous endearment, she told herself. Adults tended to develop those toward their juniors. She took several steps to close off the distance between them, ignoring the warmth that had risen into her cheeks.

"Now then," she asked in her most business-like tone, "which side is it?"

"The left…"

No sooner had he said it than the girl began pulling up his shirttail, which was tucked neatly into his trousers. She lifted the hem of his shirt up to expose his ribs, her fingertips coming to rest against the pale skin of his side, which was crisscrossed with faded scars. She missed whatever reaction he had to this as she'd kept her eyes averted. She told herself she was only imagining the way he had tensed quite suddenly beneath her fingers. It was, however, difficult to overlook his abruptly stilled chest. He was holding his breath. Was he really so afraid of her incompetence as a witch?

Hermione set her jaw, determined not to let his apprehension—or her acute awareness of just how close their bodies were at that moment—to affect her performance. She held her wand firmly by the handle and tapped the tip lightly against Professor Lupin's ribs where she could see a bruise had set in, as she did so whispering the incantation, "_Ossis resarcio_."

Outwardly it seemed nothing had happened. Hermione withdrew her hand from his side, allowing his shirt to fall over the waist of his trousers. Then she looked expectantly up at him and waited, mildly aware she'd begun to twirl her wand nervously between her fingers. Professor Lupin gazed at the girl with slightly widened eyes as if he'd never seen her before. Hermione thought for a moment that something had gone wrong, that perhaps she had botched the incantation or the movement of her wand and had cursed the poor professor with some other affliction. When she was about to ask what had happened, however, Professor Lupin's hand strayed in an explorative fashion to his ribs. He sighed and then the fear—or whatever it was—disappeared from his features. A small smile claimed the corners of his mouth again.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said lethargically, "that's much better."

But she would not easily be fooled. A real sense of purpose to her task now, Hermione wondered, "Professor, just how badly were you injured?"

His eyes darted to hers. "I don't suppose you'll let me keep it from you," he mused after a moment. When she said nothing, he admitted, "A bit. Nothing serious, Hermione. I was able to tend to a great deal of it myself, but several wounds seem stubborn to heal."

She chewed her lip and asked, "Where?"

His jaw quivered. "My back," he said tensely.

"May I?"

Hermione thought it very brave of him to nod mutely in consent, though she could only imagine the apprehension he must have felt at allowing her access to sore injuries. He had trusted her with his rib, she told herself, so he must be comfortable trusting her with other wounds. The girl walked several strides around Professor Lupin, tucking her wand behind her ear for the moment. Her hands moved toward the hem of his shirt again, this time pulling it completely free of the waist of his trousers. She lifted his shirt carefully up the scarred flesh of his back and at last found sturdy, dark-stained bandages that were secured around his back. The fingers of one hand strayed to the bandages, admiring the professor's work, before Hermione retrieved her wand.

"These will have to go," she murmured, severing the gauze dressings with a flick of her wand and slowly peeling them away from the gruesome injuries they had concealed. "_Evanesco_," she murmured, flinging away the bandages so she could better study the professor's condition. Two long, shallow, jagged cuts split his pale skin. The wounds were not bleeding freely, but blood pooled in the deepest parts of the lacerations. The surrounding skin was red and puffy, and superficial flesh clung to the ragged cuts.

Hermione grimaced, thinking of the searing pain he must be in every moment, and remembered his expression as he'd sat at the breakfast table that morning.

"_Episkey_," she tried in vain, waving her wand over the wounds. Not surprisingly, nothing happened. As she suspected, the injuries were somehow cursed. She tried a number of complicated anti-jinx and anti-hex spells, but nothing would allow her to mend the wounds. Exasperated, she tried one last, "_Finite_," and the healing charm again, but the cuts remained, thin streams of blood glistening defiantly across his back in the moonlight. She sighed.

"It's all right, Hermione. I didn't expect even you figure it out," Professor Lupin said, his voice reverberating through his chest. The girl's fingertips buzzed pleasantly at the vibrations she felt through his strong back.

"I won't give up," she said simply as she lowered his shirt down, taking care not to drag the fabric over his wounds. Then she told him, "Wait here," as she stepped around him and toward the dining room door, ignoring the curious look of his she could see in the corner of her eye.

The kitchen was dark, but Hermione whispered, "_Lumos_," and the resulting glow that emanated from the tip of her wand was enough to illuminate the cabinets and range, as well as the empty fireplace and the dark shape of the cauldron that hung inside. She had a good idea what she ought to be looking for, so Hermione started rummaging through tall cabinets until she found one filled with an assortment of bottles of amber and rose-colored liquids. She glanced over the labels, looking for a whiskey, but only found so much as a strong brandy. It would have to do. She grabbed the fat bottle by its neck and closed the cabinet door behind her with a flick of her wand. Thinking of it at the last minute, she found a clean dish towel and left the kitchen. She crossed the vacant dining room again and re-entered the living room where Professor Lupin stood patiently with his hands in his pockets.

"I respect you as a witch," the professor said, cocking an eyebrow at Hermione's reappearance, "but I can't say I wish to entrust you with my care if you intend to start drinking as soon as things get challenging."

Hermione suppressed a laugh at his unexpected humor and replied, "It's not for me." At his curious and apprehensive look, she said, "Come on," and swept past him, making for the stairs. She padded quietly down the hall with the professor's shoes clicking softly on the floorboards behind her. She found his room as she'd expected to find it—tidy and clean with a made bed and not a furnishing out of place. She noticed as soon as she was in the door that the professor didn't seem to have any possessions or belongings in sight. The girl waited for him to also enter and then she shut the door behind them. The scrape of the bolt striking the plate was an oddly final sound in her ears.

Determined not to let her professionalism waver for a moment, the girl assumed what she hoped was a confident pose. Hermione brandished her still-lit wand in one hand and the bottle of brandy in the other. Regretting the uncertainty in her voice, she said, "Erm…I suppose you'll want to take off your shirt, professor?"

In the wake of his startling humor a moment before regarding the alcohol, the girl almost expected another joke about her request that he strip. The professor did not seem inclined, however, to make light of the situation as he dutifully unbuttoned his shirt. He even appeared unable to meet her eyes as he shrugged off the sleeves and laid the shirt aside over a small dresser.

Hermione's gaze was instantly fixed on his naked torso and she felt a shameful flush rise in her cheeks because of it. She just couldn't seem to look away. His pale skin was littered with old silvery-white scars as well as the reddish marks of more recent injuries. But what was perhaps more startling was the build of his slight and unimposing frame. She would never have imagined that beneath his loose and threadbare clothes his body would be so hard. He was lean and every muscle seemed to be stretched over his bones. There was a gangly sort of grace about his firm, male body.

She realized Professor Lupin was watching her careful scrutiny of his figure. The girl shivered and forced her thoughts to return to her task.

"Here," she said, thrusting the brandy in his direction, "take a drink of this."

His eyes widened doubtfully at the bottle, and Hermione scolded herself for letting her mind wander a moment ago. What was he afraid she would do to him? What must he think of her, barging into his bedroom and taking in the ample feast of his flesh so trustingly offered to her? Here was her former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, standing half-naked in front of her, no doubt just as uncomfortable by the arrangement as Hermione ought to have been. Suddenly a guilty lump had risen into her throat, and she swallowed past it.

"Trust me," she said, still proffering the brandy, "you'll wish you had in a moment."

He took the bottle in his long, pale fingers, uncorked it with a wet squelching sound, raised it to his lips and took a long draught. In the next second he pulled a face as he ripped the bottle from his lips, slopping some of the clear liquid down the stubble of his throat. "Gah," he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, "horrible stuff!"

She quickly took back the re-corked bottle and ran her eyes down the label, realizing all too late it was fruit-flavored brandy. Specifically, apricot.

"Sorry," she said, flashing him a sympathetic grimace, "I reckon it's quite ghastly."

Though his expression was still sour, he murmured, "That's all right."

Balancing the bottle against her hip with her wand hand, Hermione motioned to the bed with the hand that held the dish towel, saying, "Please lie down."

His eyes darted briefly to the brandy in her hand and did as he'd been asked, turning and lowering himself to lie on his stomach atop the comforter. At the sight of his back and the grisly cuts there, Hermione was once again reminded of her purpose. She found renewed determination to tend his wounds with professionalism and haste.

"_Nox_," she whispered to her wand, plunging the room into shadows. Within a moment, her eyes had adjusted to the faint light pouring in through the single window. The moonlight-etched shaped of Professor Lupin lie stretched out on the bed. Although it was a deceivingly serene picture, Hermione could not help but notice the way his sides were expanding and collapsing with uneven breaths. She approached the bed on his left side, near enough now to peer over his shoulder and see the way he was staring over at the wall with his left cheek pressed against the sheets.

"_Aguamenti_," she murmured and pressed the tip of her wand into the dish towel until the material was sufficiently damp. Then she shifted the load between her hands so that she could uncork the bottle again. She overturned the brandy and doused the towel, which she then rung to get the alcohol diluted into the wet cloth. The sharp scent of alcohol and apricots stung her nose. Hermione set aside the bottle, cork and all, onto a small nightstand. Then she stowed her wand, preferring not to relight it and choosing instead to leave the poor professor in darkness. Perhaps, she thought, it would help relax him, for he seemed unbearably tense as she took a seat on the edge of the mattress. She touched her hand gingerly to the place just above his cuts, trying to gently pull the skin taut so she could get the best glimpse in the soft light. His muscles twitched beneath the flesh at her touch.

Hermione said, "This will sting," before pressing the sodden cloth against Professor Lupin's open wounds. He gasped and writhed under her ministration, and the girl saw that his fingers had dug into the thin comforter, grasping feebly through the pain. Compassion welled in her heart for him. "Sorry," she said, leaning across his shoulders to try and catch his eye. She noticed he only squeezed his eyes shut even tighter as the weight of her chest settled on his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, professor. It'll help prevent infection; an old muggle trick," she whispered in explanation, fearing how badly she must have hurt him. She picked herself up and readjusted the towel to cover more of the scratches. He jolted mutely and then lay still again, although his sides were heaving with rapid breaths.

Hermione bit her lip and pressed down gently, allowing the pungent alcohol in the brandy to go to work. "My father told me stories," she explained at length, "about what early dentists used to do with their patients. They'd make them drink whiskey or rum. It knocked the patients out after surgery and helped to sterilize the wounds. Well…I imagine that would smart a bit, too." She smiled mirthlessly down at the sinews of his back that rippled with his steadily slowing breaths. The hand that was not holding down the towel strayed over a lifelong report of cuts and scrapes that was etched into his skin. She traced the scars with her fingertips for a moment, wishing she knew some charm or incantation that would blot those imperfections from his skin. How Professor Lupin must have suffered throughout his life…

Hermione suddenly felt as though she wanted to cry.

After several quiet moments, she leaned over his shoulder again and asked softly, "Where else, professor?"

His eyes snapped open at her voice; she felt his breathing rate increase beneath her hands. At length he grunted, "Just the ankle."

The girl slipped from his side and took another seat on the edge of the mattress, this time near his feet. She took his left foot in her hands and lifted his shin from the comforter. She pivoted herself, bringing her own legs up beneath her so that she was kneeling on the corner of the bed. Then she laid his leg across her lap so that she could better reach the ankle. Her fingers went to unlace his shoe. With her left hand she pushed up the hem of his pant leg and held his lean calf just above the ankle. She slipped her right thumb down the side of his shoe, trying to get a firm but gentle grip. She held her breath and carefully worked the shoe off his foot. Professor Lupin did not make a sound, but instead—perhaps involuntarily, she thought—flinched under her hands, trying to pull his sore ankle from her reach.

Hermione set aside the shoe and slipped the sock from his foot. As she'd expected, the same stout bandages hugged his ankle, bearing similar dark stains, the color of which she was almost glad she could not make out in the darkness. The girl waved her hand and with wandless magic cut effortlessly through the bandage without harming the professor's ankle. Then she pulled carefully at the corners of the bandage, and cringed as they left his skin. The wound beneath the dressing was a series of deep gashes and ragged flesh. The sight put knots in her stomach and Hermione had to look away for a moment. When she thought she'd screwed up enough courage, she returned to her inspection and peeled away the rest of the bandages, which she vanished with a flick of her wrist.

She withdrew her wand, found a place on his ankle where the flesh was still whole, and set the tip to his skin, repeating the same bone-repairing spell under her breath for good measure. Then she charmed the brandy-soaked towel to levitate from Professor Lupin's back and return to her hand before she once again stowed her wand. The professor must have prepared himself for the pain this time; when she set the cool side of the wet cloth to his ankle, he only flinched.

Hermione sat with him for several moments, pressing the towel gently to his maimed ankle. After lifting the cloth once or twice to peer at the still-bleeding wound, the girl decided to leave his ankle wrapped. The cuts on his back, however, needed the fresh air to close completely. His wounds would do best if he remained on his stomach through the night. Hermione quietly levitated a dusty old pillow from a chair in the corner and wedged it beneath his shin, trying to keep the ankle levitated. She quickly untied and removed the shoe from his other foot. Then she slipped from the mattress, set his shoes on the floor beside the bed with the socks folded neatly inside.

Hermione returned to the head of the bed and peered over him. "Professor," she whispered, thinking she might advise him to stay on his stomach if he could help it. He didn't answer right away, so she kneeled on the mattress and leaned across his shoulders, careful to keep away from the cuts on his back. "Professor," she repeated before she realized his eyes were shut and he was breathing deeply through his slightly-opened mouth.

Professor Lupin was asleep.

Hermione felt an odd sensation coursing through her that she thought might be remorse. The poor professor had been injured so badly. He had trusted himself to her care and abilities as a witch, and the girl only hoped she had not let him down. Perhaps she'd mended his rib, Hermione thought, but she hardly did anything helpful besides. She had caused him more discomfort and pain without feeling sure she'd really done anything at all to help his condition. There was nothing for it, she decided, but to hope she'd helped him begin the slow and old-fashioned healing method of waiting.

Oh, why had he agreed in the first place to let her torture him, Hermione lamented silently. Why had he agreed to endure her pointless ministrations? And why could Hermione only think of how she'd do it all over again if only to enjoy the same complete trust he'd shown her tonight?

Not quite realizing what she was doing, the girl found she was lowering herself over Professor Lupin's sleeping form. She was suddenly very close to the side of his calm and peaceful face. She could see every delicate line that made up the crow's foot at the corner of his eye. She could have counted the short, light-colored hairs of his eyebrow. Though her heart was racing in her chest and her mind screamed ignored protest, Hermione drew closer still. Their lips were nearly touching. She hesitated, turning aside at the last moment and instead brushing her cheek against the side of his face. His stubble scratched her skin as she brought the corner of her mouth near his own. Hermione lingered there, breathing in the warm scent of his skin and his hair and stifling surprise at all the unexpected things it was causing her body to do. Afraid of her own childish impulses, the girl forced herself away from his face although she could not yet leave his side.

Hermione gently pressed her cheek to the flat plane between Professor Lupin's shoulder blades and realized her eyes had filled with tears. She lay across him with her head resting on his back and her arms draped over his shoulders, conscious of the still-open wounds on his back and the way she could no longer make out the far wall through the blurriness that obscured her vision. For a moment she lay trying to collect her wits while she felt herself rising and falling on the breaths that filled and emptied his chest. Finally she could push herself up into a sitting position. She spared Professor Lupin one more glance after wiping her eyes on her sleeve. Thinking of the cold, she retrieved her wand for the last time that evening and murmured a warming charm as she gestured over his back. It would feel like a thermal blanket, she knew, and would fade before the morning.

Hermione returned to her own bed a moment later, her head swimming until she fell back asleep. This time her dreams were not only plagued by thoughts of her old headmaster. This time they were filled with the fears of another man's untimely death; a man with a kind and familiar face, who always seemed to be smiling through his scars.


	5. Chapter 4

I am determined not to complain. It was a fine movie, after all, and it was remarkably inclusive, considering time constraints. I felt little emotional release at the last few scenes, and mostly because Harry's relationship with Sirius had suffered so greatly from the lack of Gary Oldman's screen time in the last film. I was determined not to complain, but when two and a half hours had passed and poor Professor Lupin had graced the screen for a total of four minutes and with only a brief line or two of dialogue, I could not help but criticize. I suppose I'm just biased. Still, I felt somewhat cheated and my date (whom I believe was drinking in Sirius's chest tattoos as avidly as I was searching for that kind, familiar face) could only shake his head at me and sigh afterward that I'm too picky. I liked Luna, though. She was delightful.

_(coeptus)_

When Remus Lupin returned from Diagon Alley, the streets were full of that steely glow of dusk unique to humid summer evenings. Streetlamps burned like pale, ghostly orbs lining the sidewalk and the air held a sharp scent of freshly cut grass that transported Lupin back to a time in his boyhood. He walked with his fists shoved in his pockets and his mind wandering. The fingers of his right hand were loosely curled around the end of his wand, but Lupin was not thinking of defending himself.

He'd spent the whole of the afternoon killing time in the lounge of The Leaky Cauldron, though he had, in truth, drunk very little that day. An initial shot of firewhiskey had taken out the sting, and Lupin had contented himself afterward on several pints of weak butterbeer and a plate of rather awful food when he'd felt the only vestiges of hunger toward the late afternoon. The day had been wasted on mindless conversation with a bored-looking barman and Lupin had only a slightly sick feeling in his stomach and a few galleons less in his pocket to show for it. He did not particularly regret the idleness; he was, after all, off duty from Order work. At least until the next full moon. Lupin could spend his free time and what little money he had in whatever fashion he desired, couldn't he?

He glanced up from the sidewalk that night to find he had arrived at the proper spot and drawn quite unwontedly to a stop. He looked up at the division between the nondescript, sturdy muggle houses and thought of everything that must be going on just out of sight. Molly would have cleaned up after dinner and the residents of the house would likely be settling down or retiring to their own rooms. Perhaps Mad-Eye would be frowning severely over an ale or a moldy book in the study. Perhaps Arthur would still be reclined at the dinner table, laughing over some office anecdote with Kingsley. Perhaps Molly would be chasing after the twins, scolding them for pestering their younger siblings. Harry would be standing quietly by in a hallway, or leaning in the doorway to the drawing room, smiling good-naturedly and passively at them all in a way that reminded Lupin so strongly of James that at times he had to shake himself of the illusion.

He let out a weary breath where he stood on the pavement between 11 and 13 Grimmauld Place. He had been avoiding the house all day since oversleeping breakfast, and yet he could never leave it entirely. Not because of the memories associated with those oppressive rooms—the memories of Sirius alone were enough to drive Lupin away—or because it seemed to be the last safe place he could really return to at night. Now Lupin had a stronger reason to come home. Because somewhere in there, he knew, over all the fuss and business going on loudly in the halls and between the rooms, Hermione Granger would look up from whatever text she was currently half-way through, roll her eyes toward the ceiling and give an exasperated little sigh before reading on…

Lupin shut his eyes. He could not keep allowing his thoughts to return to her. It had only been several days since his return from the den, and the swiftness at which these new disconcerting feelings developed startled him. What would she think of him, Lupin wondered, if the girl knew all the things he felt when he looked at her—pride, longing and a tenderness that stirred parts of his heart he'd long since suspected of being only dead tissue? She would think him a perverse and twisted old man, Lupin speculated, if she did not think him so already. But then, what had she meant by those protracted silences and drawn-out stares the night before? She had been so gentle with him, so caring, so—

Lupin groaned.

—So _motherly_, he realized. Of course. Sweet and unsuspectingly irresistible Hermione Granger had condescended to take wayward and broken Professor Lupin under her maternal wing. He was one of her boys to be patched up and scolded gently for not having been more careful at play. She'd been doing the same for Harry and Ron since before Lupin first met the trio. Why shouldn't she keep up her work as self-proclaimed mother of lost causes? It was like her, Lupin thought. There could be no other explanation. He just wondered what had possessed her to choose him as another of her dear little goslings. Lupin did not wish to play the part. He simply wanted to forget the inappropriate thoughts and impulses that had flooded his brain since their eyes connected across the breakfast table several days ago. He wanted to forget the vile man he could have become if he had lingered any longer on the memory of her hand at his arm or her fingertips trailing the calloused skin of his back.

Lupin put thoughts of her from his mind and opened his eyes again, startled to see how much darker the twilight had grown during his short reprieve from the present. He no longer had to remind himself to think the obligatory line about headquarters being located at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. His mind conjured up the thought automatically, and the house fused itself from the brick and the glass and the shadows. He blinked once at the door and then made for it, still placing a ginger touch on his left foot.

Inside the house, the entryway was dark as expected. Lupin made sure the door closed fully behind him and then he headed toward the better-lit dwelling places of the house. He could hear an assortment of voices exclaiming the business of their owners throughout the house. Molly's voice rang out with heightened chaos above the others that it was time for Ginny to run along to bed, and it did not matter how late Fred and George stayed up, as they were of age and could very well make their own decisions, and she had better not roll her eyes at her mother that way. Lupin chuckled despite himself; he appreciated a sense of humor about Molly's particular form of humble correction, provided he was not on the receiving end.

Lupin headed for the kitchen. He would have a cup of tea to shake the buzz of cheap butterbeer and perhaps some bread to stem the rot he felt in his stomach. He could hear Fred and George going on loudly in the living room as he approached. He only hoped they would knock it off soon, or that dull ache behind his eyes may flare into a beast of a migraine soon. He saw as he entered the living room, fully intending to pass quickly through, the twins in the heat of one of their tales of raucous trickery. They had Ron's rapt and slightly begrudging attention, and Harry was watching them with only vague interest. Lupin tried to step around them when he spied Hermione sitting at the end of the couch with furry, orange cat lying curled at her side, a thick volume open in her lap and a look of viciously intent concentration on her face.

Lupin's former resolve melted and he felt the deadened flesh of his heart fill with new warmth at the sight of her. Her brown eyes were taking in the book's content at a steady and mechanical rate. Her full lips were drawn in a little from and one palm was propped under her chin while she read. The lavish brown curls of her hair fell carelessly over her shoulders, bearing little resemblance to the frizzy locks that had gone quite unnoticed during his time as her professor. The subtle golden colors embedded in every strand of Hermione's hair caught the warm light in the room and shone dully like the hope in Lupin's heart that this girl would ever not hate him for knowing he felt as he did right then.

"Lupin—Oi, Lupin," demanded a voice at his shoulder, and his attention was forced from her face in the same moment her head snapped up. Fred was standing nearby, hopping a bit with excitement, and he said, "Lupin, what do you think happened next?"

He gazed dumbly at the ginger-haired Weasley.

"What do you think the old witch did when she figured out we'd slipped a lip-glue sugar cube into her tea?" Fred clarified with a silly grin plastered to his face.

He blinked and replied mildly, "Well, I assume she went straight to the Ministry to complain of hooligans tampering with her condiments."

George slapped him on the shoulder. "No, mate," he said. "The old bat roared with laughter—except it was muffled a bit, you know, because of her lips being stuck together like they were—and as soon as Fred poured a bit of un-glue creamer into her tea, she ordered a full case!"

Lupin murmured some half-hearted compliment on the twins' destructive genius to the effect it was brilliant enough to land them in a Ministry hearing before long. If the years since his days as a Marauder had been a bit kinder, Lupin might have found their antics funny. Instead, he saw them as a potential red flag for members of the magical community looking for dark wizards.

"You know, you ought to be more careful than that," chimed in Harry's voice. "One day you upset someone if you keep springing personal demonstrations on unsuspecting customers."

Lupin glanced sidelong at him. It was a comment he would have expected from Hermione.

"Aw, don't spoil the fun, Harry," said Fred.

"Yeah," George agreed. "We haven't even told you about that delightful young wizard we sold all those nosebleed nougats to—"

"—Of course, that's only because we seemed to be misplacing the anecdote further and further into the back office the longer he took to make up his mind…"

Harry went on rebuking them and Lupin disentangled himself from the conversation. He could leave the twins to Harry; the kid had a good head on his shoulders. Anyway, it was getting difficult to maintain his composure as a certain pair of brown eyes continued to stare gently at the side of his face. Lupin could not allow her gaze to distract him; he had some sobering to see to in the kitchen. He tried to excuse himself, but the sound of Hermione's voice from the vicinity of the couch stayed any inclination he'd had of leaving.

"Professor?"

The soles of his shoes were instantly stuck to the ancient rug lining the floor; he couldn't move now if he had wanted to. He could never deny her voice or the strange powers it had over him. His head was really beginning to hurt…

"Miss Granger?" he replied, pulling his most composed expression and steady tone as he turned toward the couch to face her. The girl wore her characteristic look of mingled concern and concentration. Lupin could not help but fixate on the soft shape of her parted lips, and he silently cursed himself for it.

Hermione had closed the book (something on advanced hex theory, Lupin gathered with a sweep of his eyes over the book's weathered cover) and was staring up at him with a tense brow. "How are you feeling today?" she asked she set the closed volume aside on the arm of the couch and got to her feet. Her tabby cat gave a discontented mewl as he was disturbed and sat up on his haunches on the couch. Yellow eyes stared out of his squashed face at the man who'd caused his mistress to stand from the couch.

Lupin cleared his throat, trying to ignore the cat's scrutiny, and answered, "I'm well. I've been in Diagon Alley much of the day," he went on, baffled by his compulsion to explain himself, "taking care of some things."

She nodded and murmured, "Order things."

"Er—no," he said. "Personal. I'm off the clock, as it were."

"Oh…"

A sudden outburst of laughter from Fred and George broke Lupin's attention. The twins seemed to still be heavily invested in convincing Harry of their foolproof selling methods. Ron continued to be engrossed. The group appeared blissfully ignorant of the other two occupants of the room, and Lupin was not sure whether to consider it a good thing. He returned his attention to Hermione, whose curious and vaguely condemning gaze lingered on the twins a moment longer. When she looked back at Lupin, she managed a smile. He made an attempt to return it.

Lupin sighed and shoved a fist in his pocket. "Listen—Hermione," he began, "I wanted to properly thank you for your help. Forgive me if I was a bit brusque. I was," he hesitated, throwing an uncomfortable glance at the twins and their audience before finishing, "in a bit of pain."

"Oh, it's all right," she said breathlessly, upturning her eyebrows in that ravishingly insecure way. "I don't know that I did any good, anyway," she added with a nervous bite at her lip.

He thought only briefly of the liquid fire she had poured into his open flesh the night before. It had hurt like hell, of course, but was slightly dulled by the proceeding exquisite weight of her chest across his shoulders as she'd fussed about the medicinal advantages of alcohol against infection. As if she'd had to explain, Lupin thought darkly, as long as her young, firm bosom was pressed against him. He'd been able to feel her curves against his skin through her thin nightshirt, and the pleasure it had caused him was an odd complement to the searing pain across his back.

Lupin blinked. He realized his mind had been wandering again and he regrettably steered it back to the task of carrying on an intelligent conversation with the girl who kept invading his thoughts. He distantly recalled she had said something about not having helped his condition. In truth, Lupin was tempted to think the same with mild resentment for the searing pains she'd caused him. But it would be unfair to say so; she had, after all, mended his rib. And the shooting pains in his ankle whenever he stepped on it had vanished, though he was left with a dull ache there. Not to mention the cuts across his back had finally scabbed over, no longer giving him that burning, itchy feeling all the time. His back was still sore with unhealed wounds, but the pains were much less severe.

"No, Hermione. You helped tremendously," he said, very aware of the other people in the room and therefore peculiarly hesitant to mention details.

Something in her face brightened. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, as if relieved of some weight. "Then I'm glad to have helped," she said in a small voice.

Lupin's careful study of her expression was once again interrupted by a loud distraction. Molly's voice rang out from the front of the house where Lupin could imagine her standing frazzled at the top of the stairs, "Ronald Weasley, I had better see you in your room in a matter of minutes!"

In the living room, Ron made a show of rolling his eyes. "It's only nine, Mum," he called back. "And I'm practically of age, anyway."

"Not for another six weeks, you're not! Don't make me call down for you again!" Her tone had risen very nearly into the crescendo that flayed Lupin's nerves. He was grateful Ron chose to respond to it with well-learned obedience.

"All right," the red-head grumbled. "I guess that's good night, mate," he said to Harry, who remarked he felt a bit tired himself and bid both Hermione and Lupin a good night over another of the twins' insistent proclamations of their honest salesmanship. Ron followed Harry from the room, grumbling something under his breath. The twins exchanged an oddly satisfied look before disapparating with simultaneous, loud cracks. It all happened in an instant and with clockwork perfection—more efficiently than if Lupin had orchestrated it himself—he was alone with Hermione. A dangerous thrill of excitement gave way in him to sudden apprehension in his gut. This was one over-protective mother hen he could not trust the wolf in him to be alone with.

"I suppose I should wish you a good evening," he said quickly, hoping to get away into the dining room soon. "Goodnight, Hermione," he murmured, averting his eyes from her slightly crestfallen expression and trying to move past the girl.

Suddenly her hand was on his arm, and it was all Lupin could do not to whimper for her to let an old, confused man go die in peace.

"Professor, please wait," she said in a peculiarly pained tone that immediately forced Lupin's gaze to return to her face. The concern was now eminent in her youthful features. There was a half-guilty, half-anxious look in her eyes, and the girl seemed on the verge of tears.

For one listless moment, he could only stare at her. Baffled by the undeniably sincere affect of his condition on her mood, Lupin wondered softly, almost pleadingly, "Hermione?"

"Oh, do be careful," she breathed, her brows furrowing upward even more.

Whether she was ignoring or simply had not heard the undertones of his voice that had seemed painfully obvious to Lupin's ears, he could not tell. He went on, trying to keep his tone even, "I beg your meaning?"

The hand that was on his arm slipped down. Hermione's warm fingers grazed his elbow and came to rest on the flesh of his forearm. The delicate pressure of her fingertips against his skin made Lupin's stomach tighten involuntarily.

Apparently unaware of the agony her touch was causing him, Hermione pressed her lips together nervously and said, "I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to Harry or Ron. I can't imagine what it must be like for you, or how you must miss them."

He had a good idea of who she meant by _them_. Lupin found that his throat had constricted inexplicably. He swallowed past the knot there, trying to relax the muscles so that he could speak without sounding forced. He realized he hadn't the heart to say anything if he could. Hermione's brown eyes had welled with tears. Her hand traveled slowly, gently, to his. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist and she squeezed her palm against the back of his hand. Lupin ignored the peculiar buzzing in his head and instead focused on the heavy sensation in his chest. It had become difficult to breathe.

"I just hope that you will be careful," Hermione whispered, moisture still glistening in her dark eyes. "See that you don't make any rash decisions."

"I'm at a loss to understand how you mean," he heard his voice say in more injured tones than he would have liked. Her fingers gripped his hand closer to her own. No woman had ever touched him as earnestly, and it caught his breath in his chest.

"Professor Lupin," Hermione went on, the tears subsiding somewhat though they had not spilled out over her lashes, "your work for the Order must be very dangerous. I can't say I understand the pain you must feel in light of losing all your friends and—most recently—a fine mentor. I'm only asking that you don't allow any grief you feel to affect your judgment while at work. Please don't do anything careless. There are people in this house who care too much about you…"

Suddenly she reminded him of a gentler form of Molly's nagging. To his surprise, however, he did not find it nearly as repulsive or grating. It was a bit irritating, he thought, that this little girl would assume the authority to tell him how to behave himself away from home. But try as he might to feel repelled by her mothering, he could not bring himself to resent it. She had, after all, spoken very kindly and presented a sound argument. Lupin decided he just had to make her understand the situation was not as out-of-his-hands as his injuries might have hinted. He had to make her see he was an adult taking care of adult circumstances, unlike her other project-cases, who were both more often than not, children taking care of adult situations.

It was time to stop skirting the issue, then. If the girl was worth her salt, he told himself, then she was intelligent enough to have figured out where Lupin's work for the Order of the Phoenix had been taking him.

"Hermione," he said, "things in the werewolf underground are getting no better, and no worse. You have no reason to fear that anything there holds more danger for me than being a werewolf ever has—and I have been a werewolf for such a very long time."

The girl gazed up at him for a moment while the tears slowly welled again in her eyes. Finally she said, "Promise me you'll be careful," and it was little more than a whisper. She seemed so small and lost there in the living room, still clutching his hand as if he might try to escape.

Lupin brushed his fingers against her hand and her wrist, trying to touch as much of her as possible while the contact lasted. He would not, however, upturn his palm to meet hers and entwine their fingers together, no matter how badly he ached to.

"I promise," he said at last, though he knew it was not what she would want to hear, "that I will continue to do what is necessary for the Order. I assure you I have no desire to return to the den. However, if the consensus is that's where I am needed, then to the den I will go." Lupin could not seem to intercept the impulses firing from his brain that were controlling his fingers, or else he hadn't tried. The back of his index finger went on stroking the soft skin of her arm that he could reach without freeing his hand from her grasp. "I won't do anything careless, my dear," finished, cursing himself that he'd let the petty term slip through lips again.

Hermione did not seem to find it condescending as Lupin had feared. Instead, a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "You had better not," she said with a breathless laugh. The smile, coupled with the pending tears still gathering on her lower lids, gave the girl an irresistible, pathetic charm. Lupin felt a strange urge to scold and kiss her in the same breath.

Hermione bit at her lip again, some other worry shadowing her features for an instant. "Oh, Professor," she said, releasing his hand and throwing herself suddenly against his chest. Her arms went around his neck and her hands clutched at his shoulders. She had raised herself on the balls of her feet to hug him fully, and her face was buried in the hollow of his neck.

For a while, Lupin blinked into the space she had been a moment before, at a loss for what was happening. He finally realized with an odd numbness that he was being embraced by Hermione Granger. He felt his hands settle against her waist and the small of her back, pulling her closer to him. He turned his face aside, into her hair, shut his eyes and breathed in her colorful scents. Fears regarding the smells of The Leaky Cauldron that had undoubtedly saturated him and all thoughts of the remaining effects of cheap butterbeer in his system had been delegated to a part of his brain that seemed slightly addled. Perhaps his mind had also been affected by the strange redirection of blood flow to certain lower extremities…

—His eyes snapped open. Not here, he thought desperately, not right now. The dear girl would be horrified, and then what would he have to say for himself? Lupin forced what he hoped were even breaths into his lungs and focused on the black paint peeling from a far wall. He tried to ignore the orange tabby still sitting on the couch, staring at Lupin with that squashed face and that strangely reproachful expression.

The only thing Lupin could bring himself to think was how wretched a person he was for reacting the way he did to the sensation of the girl's body against his own—it certainly meant nothing; she must have held Ron like this before, and Lupin was certain he'd seen her embrace Harry half a dozen times, he'd even seen a picture of it in _The Daily Prophet_ several years back, accompanying some yarn about Harry's doomed relationships that he had skimmed through over breakfast one morning back in a time when he did not experience these powerful and terrible urges for the girl with honey-colored hair who was currently pressed against his frame. Hermione had better break off the hug soon, Lupin thought, or he would have some hefty explaining to do…

At last, he felt her arms begin to withdraw and her warmth leave his front. Lupin quickly loosened his grip on her, hoping they had moved in the same instant. He could not tell if there had been any awkward delay. His brain still seemed unable to work properly and he told himself he was only imagining the way her cheek lingered against his as they pulled apart from one another. Hermione's hands remained on his arms a moment longer. She stared up at him with dry eyes and a sober expression. For one wildly hopeful second, Lupin thought he saw something curious flicker across her face, as if she were searching his eyes for validation, or the answer to a question neither of them had asked aloud. The look was replaced by a brief and vaguely disappointed drop of her brows. It disappeared in the same instant he had seen it, and Hermione went on smiling.

"Well, good night, Professor Lupin," the girl said brightly.

"Good night," he murmured in reply, surprised he could still speak after an ordeal like the one he'd just been through.

Hermione left his side, retrieved her book from the edge of the couch and said, "Come, Crookshanks," to the ginger tabby who'd sat very still that whole time, eyeing the scene with unblinking yellow eyes. The cat sighed morosely, as if lamenting Lupin's obvious weakness for his mistress, and slunk from the couch. He came to rest daintily on all fours and skipped after the young witch. "Sweet dreams," Hermione told Lupin with a smile and a flash of her eyes toward his face as she brushed past him, heading for the door. Only when she'd disappeared through the threshold could he take his eyes away.

—Lupin's stomach lurched. He must have been sick. She was only a teenager, unsuspecting of his newfound and unsavory affection for her. What kind of monster was he to keep feeding on these innocent meetings? But he could not quite shake the way she had held onto him and had pressed her face into the corner of his neck like she belonged there, like it had been the most natural thing for both of them. There must have been something behind it. No woman, Lupin reminded himself, had ever touched him quite as earnestly as Hermione Granger.

He laughed bitterly to himself and shook his head, wondering since when Hermione Granger had become a woman in his mind. She was still a child. Lupin needed to forget his growing affection for her—and quickly.

He turned, took several shaky steps and found himself in the dining room. He must have slammed open the door, for it hit the wall and swung slightly back his direction. Kingsley Shacklebolt was standing beside another wizard at the far end of the room near the hearth. The glowing embers cast a strange light on his expression of surprise at Lupin's entrance. The other man, whom Lupin recognized as another of the Order's contacts within the Ministry, only glanced his way before replacing a pipe in his mouth. The vaguely familiar wizard puffed on his pipe and Shacklebolt resumed their conversation in muttered tones. The only other person in the room was Alastor Moody, sitting nearby at the table. Lupin felt his magical eye without having to look.

Tea, Lupin told himself, he needed tea to shake whatever this was.

He straightened, trying to appear composed, and made for a seat at the far end of the table. Moody did not let him get far. Lupin hadn't taken three steps into the room when he reached Mad-Eye's place at the table. As the younger man passed behind him, the ex-auror grunted a quiet and accusing, "So."

Lupin bristled. Hoping Kingsley and the other wizard would remain engaged in their own business and not become prone to eavesdropping, he looked over his shoulder at Alastor and said without any further pleasantries, "It isn't what you think."

"Isn't it?"

Lupin tried to willfully calm his nerves, but the other man's tone was insufferable. Tea, he reminded himself. He needed to conjure some tea to clear his thoughts and bread for the sick feeling in his stomach.

"No. It isn't," he replied blandly, turning a slow circle to meet Moody's stare. The look he discovered on the other's twisted and deeply scarred face was perhaps the most disturbing turn of the evening. Alastor was smiling. It was a wicked, amused sort of smile, and it made Lupin want to throttle him.

"Held her a bit close for a former student," Mad-Eye growled.

Tea. And bread.

Decidedly stale bread.

Either Lupin had chosen not to answer or his feet had automatically begun leading him away. He wasn't sure which, but in the next moment he was walking toward the far end of the table again.

"I don't suppose she's ever thrown herself like that at Professor Flitwick," Alastor added so quietly Lupin almost didn't hear him. Almost.

Bugger the tea. He wouldn't stand by while Hermione's intentions were attacked. The dear girl had done nothing to deserve the mockery Moody was making at her expense. Lupin cursed himself for ever going near her. He spun and closed the distance between himself and Alastor's place at the table in two strides.

"How much," He demanded hotly, hesitating at the jarring quality of his voice and dropping the volume for the sake of the other wizards in the room. "How much," he tried again, "would I have to pay so that you never mention it again?"

Something soured in Moody's face, making him look smug and irritable as usual. "You couldn't buy my silence, Sleeping Beauty," he muttered. "Why the guilty conscience?"

Lupin sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I need a drink," he groaned into his palm. He thought of the kitchen and some more foul-tasting alcohol he might be able to scare up.

Before he'd even turned toward the kitchen door, however, Alastor said, "I wouldn't try there, if I were you." When Lupin shot him a curious look through the fingers still pressed to his face, Moody went on, "Nothing strong enough for what you need. I don't know the Blacks kept any good drink around—and if they did, perhaps it's kept somewhere else." He sneered in amusement and suggested, "Maybe wherever the apricot brandy is…"

Lupin dropped his hand from his face and blinked wearily. He gave up. There was no arguing with Mad-Eye. "Might as well have a seat," Alastor grumbled, turning back around to the table.

Lupin chose a stool several places away and sank down onto it. He brought his elbows to the tabletop and immediately hid his face in his hands.

"Here," said Alastor's voice a moment later. Lupin glanced sidelong at him and saw that he'd removed a wide, silver flask from inside his jacket. He was proffering it to the younger man and Lupin stared at it dumbly. "Romanian firewhiskey," Mad-Eye explained gruffly. "Hell of a lot stronger than that malt rubbish they serve up at The Leakey Cauldron."

Lupin took the flask with numb fingers and asked, "I can't keep anything from you, can I?"

"The smell gave you away from the front door," Alastor growled. Then he brought his fist hard down on Lupin's shoulder and said, "At least you're coming around to reason. Drink up—but don't empty the whole flask. That stuff isn't imported cheaply."

Lupin unscrewed the cap and took an experimental swig. The stuff turned molten in his throat and sucked all the breath from his lungs. His throat closed. His eyes watered. He was left gasping and coughing like a man coming up for air after an overlong dive.

"Good," Mad-Eye growled, whacking him on the back with a meaty hand. "There you are—get her out of your system…"

Lupin took another swig. This was going to be a long night.


	6. Chapter 5

Bah. I originally had a lot more to say about the book, but I'll hold my comments. I think it's safe to assume I've crossed into the realm of AU.

Anywho, sorry, no Lupin at all in this chapter. I wanted to sort of deal with an important plot point through Hermione's interaction with other characters. We'll get back to the emerging couple next chapter, though…

_(coeptus)_

It was past four a.m. and Hermione decided she could no longer wait for the sun. She threw off the covers and sat upright. Crookshanks, who had lain curled under her arm and purring loudly for several hours, flailed and gave a mild growl of frustration at being disturbed.

"Oh, hush," she hissed at him, pulling on her favorite blue jeans and a new pink tee. She tucked her wand into her back pocket and pulled a hand through her sleep-tossed curls. Tame enough, she decided.

Hermione left her room, allowing Crookshanks to weave around her ankles and slink out before her into the hall, undoubtedly to search for breakfast of his own. It had been the cat's worst-kept secret ever since Hermione first began staying over among company including the Weasleys that Molly fed Crookshanks early-morning scraps in the kitchen. Hermione allowed it, though she kept a watchful eye on the tabby's weight and demeanor. She couldn't very well have him growing more idle than usual.

The girl quietly followed her cat down to the street level of the house. Crookshanks's tail was already disappearing around the corner into the living room by the time Hermione reached the landing. She padded across the living room and through the dining room, toward the kitchen, absently noting the house's inhabitants seemed to all be asleep. As the girl entered the kitchen, she saw that Crookshanks had found his favorite Weasley, who was busy scraping fatty crumbs of bacon into a small dish on the floor. The two were not alone in the room, however. Mr. Weasley was standing nearby, eating quick forkfuls of breakfast over the counter as he flipped through an early edition of _The Daily Prophet_.

"Hermione," sang Mrs. Weasley's kind voice when she looked up from feeding the cat and noticed the girl in the doorway. "Gracious, child, what are you doing up so early?"

"Oh, I, er—couldn't sleep," she rattled off. "I was hungry."

"Come here, my girl," Mrs. Weasley invited with a generous sweep of her hand. "There's still a bit of bacon and eggs left over from Arthur's breakfast. I'll make you some toast, how would you like that?"

Hermione smiled gratefully and approached her, saying, "Thanks, Mrs. Weasley." She accepted the plate Molly hastily prepared for her and said, "I didn't know you got up this early, Mr. Weasley."

Arthur uttered a polite, "Hmm?" from behind the periodical. He lowered the paper from his face and gave the girl a curious look. "Oh, Hermione, it's you," he replied. "Forgive me—I'm a bit distracted this morning…ah, yes—I've got a long day at the Ministry, see. The Wizengamot is meeting with representatives from Hogwarts. Some, er—new staffing is to be discussed," he explained delicately. "It typically wouldn't concern my department, of course, but there are some security issues involved and—well, it gets a bit technical—a lot of the offices are overlapping in duties right now. It's not as though I haven't got enough to do as it is. Suspicious articles keep popping up and I'm the one to deal with them. Random acts of violent mischief going on all over London and I don't know what else—"

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley snapped. She seemed to notice the sharpness of her voice and amended it when she continued a bit softer, "Don't you think that's enough, dear? You'll frighten the poor girl."

A look of shock passed over his features. "Oh, of course, of course," he murmured. "Do forgive me, Hermione, but sometimes I forget how young you are…" He pushed away his empty plate, folded and set aside the _Prophet_. "I should be getting to the Ministry, anyway. Good day, dear," he said to Mrs. Weasley before he kissed her briefly on the cheek and marched from the kitchen.

Molly watched him go for a moment, wringing her hands with poorly concealed worry. She turned back to Hermione and made an exasperated noise. "Nevermind the senseless things he says," she sighed. "I love the man, but there are times…"

Hermione considered telling her it was okay; she was not as frightened as Mr. and Mrs. Weasley seemed to think she would be by hearing of the turmoil in the Wizarding world. Openness to truth is what separated Hermione and the rest of the Order from fools like those at the Ministry and the _Prophet_ who had so fervently denied the return of Voldemort so long. But as soon as the girl thought of these things, she found she had no need to say them aloud. The adults in her life tended to underestimate Hermione's understanding. It required less energy to allow them to continue in the illusion that she was a helpless child.

Instead, Hermione smiled as sincerely as she could at Molly Weasley, who looked up from where she was pointing her wand at her husband's empty plate and froze at the girl's expression. The cleaning charm she had aimed at the dish missed its target as Molly's attention wandered and instead hit the bare marble countertop, which shone brilliantly in the firelight from the hearth as though it had been freshly polished.

"Everything all right?" Hermione wondered breathlessly, taken aback by Mrs. Weasley's startled face and her uncharacteristically poor aim.

"Y—yes," Mrs. Weasley muttered, staring in wonder at Hermione as if seeing her clearly for the first time. She lowered her wand, apparently abandoning thoughts of cleaning, and said, "My girl, when did this happen?"

Hermione grinned helplessly at her, feeling flustered. "I don't understand what you mean," she replied honestly.

"Don't understand?" she repeated in amusement. "You sly thing! I'm a mother—don't think I can't recognize things like this. Now tell me; I want to know what happened to put that look on your face."

"What look?"

"What do you mean _what look_?" Molly stamped her foot impatiently on the floor, although a wide and knowing smile had come to her lips. "Why, the same look as I had when I knew I would marry Arthur. Of course, he hadn't noticed me, yet. We were still in our third year at the time and—oh, that's neither here nor there. So, tell me, child!"

"Tell you…"

"Tell me how it happened," Molly clarified earnestly, clasping her hands over her wand and bringing them to her chest. "When did you know you were in love?"

"In—love?" she spluttered, feeling heat rise into her cheeks and ears. Hermione had the absurd notion that she sounded like a parrot. The other woman was acting so peculiar that she had no idea what to say. "But Mrs. Weasley, that's ridiculous. I'm not in love—"

"Of course you are," Molly insisted. "Oh, I reckon you've decided to be quiet about it, haven't you? How charming! Although, I hadn't thought him the secretive type. Oh, poor Ginny will be crushed, of course, but I'm sure she'll learn to accept the idea."

"Ginny? Accept the idea of what?" she asked, still trying to grasp what Mrs. Weasley was saying and at the same time wondering why on earth Ginny would be crushed by Hermione's feelings for Professor Lupin. As soon as his name entered her mind, the girl recoiled from the thought and the memory of his kind and modestly handsome face as they had spoken the previous day.

"—The idea of you and Harry, that is," Molly said excitedly, interrupting her sudden daydream. "Oh, you don't have to act so shocked, my girl. Tell me everything."

"I'm not in love with _Harry_," she objected, regretting the deliberate stress she'd put on his name.

"You're not?" The smile vanished from her face. She lowered her hands and twisted them nervously before her. She lifted her eyebrows curiously and went on haltingly, as if she did not know what to make of the new development, "Oh, that's all right, then. I just didn't anticipate…" Her brow creased anxiously and she said very quickly, "Oh, Hermione, don't take this badly. I mean, of course I love my son, but don't you think Ron is a bit silly—"

"I'm not in love with _Ronald_, either," she squealed.

"Er—no?" Molly said with the faintest hint of relief in her voice. She sighed, dropping her shoulders a fraction. "Heavens," she laughed, "I thought for a moment…well, at one time it seemed as though you were particularly fond of him."

"At one time I think I was," Hermione mused with a shrug. "But that's passed. I realize now it couldn't have worked between us. Ron will always be my friend, but…" She left the comment hanging there, not caring to elaborate on how uncomfortable every one of Ronald Weasley's stares her direction made her, or the way she felt trapped by his insufferable jealousy and all of his pouting whenever she so much as talked to another boy at school.

"Well, then, my girl," Molly pressed on, "who is the lucky boy?"

Hermione shook her head, thinking inexplicably again of Professor Lupin's honest features, the natural smile of his mouth, the warmth of his eyes. She had to carefully review every word before it left her mouth, afraid she might let slip something about the thoughtful and charming lines of his brow, instead of saying what she intended: "Nobody, Mrs. Weasley. I'm not in love with anyone." At the older woman's critical stare, she added, "There's the idea of someone, maybe. I'm…well, I'm sort of smitten, to tell the truth—fond, but not _in love_."

Molly pursed her lips together and said pityingly, "He doesn't return it, then."

"No—well, I don't know, actually. I've never asked him," she finished lamely.

"Why ever not?"

Hermione blinked. The thought was so wonderfully thrilling and potentially horrible that she did not know whether to indulge in it for the remainder of the conversation or put it as far from her mind as she could. So intoxicated was she by the idea of professing all the startling new affection she felt for Remus Lupin that Hermione forgot for a moment how absurd it was. He had been a teacher at her school, after all. He had not quite been Gilderoy Lockhart to the female population at Hogwarts, but he had been respected and well-liked, and he was probably no stranger to the flighty obsessions of young girls.

But Hermione couldn't help but think of the brief conversations she had shared with him during the last several days, and the one precious and eagerly returned embrace the night before. No affection in the world, she knew, could have felt more utterly natural than being in his arms. Hermione's heart was beating very rapidly in a way it never had with any previous crush or girlish fixation. She felt a strange heavy sensation in her chest as she considered the remote possibility. It was a thrill of excitement so frail that it fluttered under her ribs like a caged bird and made her feel at the same time that she was swimming in deep water with all the weight of an ocean pressing in on her, making it impossible to breathe. Her only hope of not drowning in that exquisitely painful joy of possibility would be for Hermione to race up the stairs to his room and spill her most guarded secrets.

"Hermione?" Mrs. Weasley said cautiously.

The girl shook herself and murmured, "You're probably right."

"Well, of course I'm right! Don't worry, dear. With your intellect and your pretty face, what young man could deny you? Oh, I'm certain you'll make it right," the woman went on as though she had not seen what Hermione knew to be an unconvincing grin. "In the mean time, there's no sense worrying over it. Here," she said, waving her wand at a small basket on the counter, which levitated itself and glided toward Hermione. The girl had since abandoned her uneaten breakfast and caught the basket from the air with both hands. "We need to prepare for the early risers of the house," Mrs. Weasley told her. "The fruit is in the pantry."

Hermione did as instructed and filled the wicker basket with pears and apples from a cabinet. Molly spoke mercifully of other things than the girl's love life as she levitated several loaves of bread out of the oven. They walked together into the dining room and began to arrange the food items on the long table. Soon they were joined by Nymphadora Tonks, whose drooping eyelids and the careless state of her pink hair spoke of her distaste for the hour. Something squirmed within Hermione when she saw her—some fairly recent memory that struggled to surface into relevance.

"Good morning, Dora!" Mrs. Weasley said brightly at her entrance.

"Wotcher," Tonks groaned to no one in particular as she sank onto the bench.

"Sleep well? Here, have some bread. Freshly baked—there's a good girl." Molly stowed her wand and rubbed her hands together. "It's a long day for Aurors, too, I understand," she rattled on.

Tonks gazed up at Mrs. Weasley with her features drawn in a look of bewilderment and her fingers still clutching the piece of bread from the loaf that had sliced itself on the table a moment before. "Yeah," she murmured. "They've upped security around the Ministry while Hogwarts people are there. Afraid of some sort of blowout, I suppose." Then she wrinkled her nose and added with a note of suspicion, "You're awfully cheery this morning, Molly."

"Well, you know—the troops must be fed and ready to march," she said dismissively.

"Hmm," replied Tonks, glancing over at Hermione and observing mildly, "You're up early."

"Hermione's having a bit of a boy situation," Mrs. Weasley blurted. "I think she's found her first love—isn't she glowing?"

Hermione was too shocked by Molly's impropriety—and the insistent memory that had already half-recalled itself to mind—to stop the hand that squeezed her arm reassuringly.

Tonks looked up with interest from her place at the table. "A boy?" she wondered. "So, who's got your number, Hermione?"

But the girl's tongue had become a lead weight in her mouth, and she found she could not speak, not even to lie. Suddenly she remembered herself standing in the shadowy hospital wing with an assortment of familiar faces, which included both Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin. She remembered the one's confession and the way the other, though vocalizing his hesitance, did not implicitly deny her. The moment had become buried beneath the significance of everything else that had happened that night at Hogwarts, and the girl hadn't thought of it since.

All wild hopes regarding Professor Lupin deflated spectacularly as Hermione stared into Tonks's face over the breakfast table. The horrible reality slid into focus in her mind: he was loved by someone else. Hermione would find no place in his heart.

"I say, who has got your number?" Tonks repeated, sounding slightly impatient.

"Oh," breathed Hermione, "a friend. He's just a friend."

"Ah, but that can change," said Mrs. Weasley. "You've just got to muster courage enough to take a chance."

Some brightness extinguished itself in Tonks's tired eyes. "Be careful, Hermione," she said. Then she dropped her face and muttered at the surface of the wooden table, "Men are gits."

Hermione's stomach did a peculiar flip that she ignored out of necessity.

Molly must have realized her error, for she rushed to Tonks's side and hugged an arm bracingly round her shoulders. "Don't say things like that, Dora," she scolded gently. "All men aren't so bad. You've just got to find the right one. A good one," she added with a meaningful squeeze of the younger woman's frame.

Hermione felt an odd thrill of hope and disgust at this development, but it was quickly overshadowed by a deep sense of compassion for Tonks, who was obviously feeling injured in some respect that had to do with men. And the only man Hermione knew to have been dear in Tonks's estimation—at least as of that night in the hospital wing—was Professor Lupin. Hermione didn't know whether to consider the development a blessing or a curse. She asked the only question that came to mind.

"But Tonks, weren't you…that is, haven't you ever been in love?"

Both Mrs. Weasley and Tonks stared at her for a moment. At last, the latter said blandly, "I thought I was." Then she rose quite suddenly from the bench, shrugging off Molly's arm as she went. Tonks glanced down at the wicker basket Hermione had set on the table moments before, thrust in her hand and said, "I'll just take an apple—for the road, you know." Her eyes darted nervously to the pear in her hand, but Tonks didn't amend herself before she turned and fled from the dining room.

Hermione watched her back disappear through the door, feeling her heart wrestle with all the relief and hope she wanted to feel, and the pity she was obliged to feel for her friend. Above all she felt a burning sense of curiosity to know what had happened in so short a time to make Tonks transition from being so bent on her fixation that she would admit it to a room full of people still mourning Dumbledore's death, to being so repulsed by the idea that she would run from an almost empty room just to escape talk of it. And still beyond that curiosity Hermione conjured an image of his face in her mind—patient and familiar—and she could not bring herself to think badly of him.

"Merlin's beard," Mrs. Weasley muttered under her breath when Tonks had gone. "Sometimes I think that girl is hopeless. Well, there's nothing for it, Hermione, what say we—heavens, child, what's wrong? You look a bit peaky."

Hermione shook herself from daydreams and replied, "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Well, that's a relief," Molly said, not sounding entirely convinced. "Here, my girl, what say we set the table and get to work on the sausages? If those aren't ready by the time the twins come around for breakfast, they'll be out for my blood."


	7. Chapter 6

Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did. I thought it turned out pretty well, considering I wrote the last half in between bouts of throwing up my toenails. Er…I might have gone a bit overboard on that one particular scene, but I just couldn't stop. It was awesome. I feel like I need a healthy slap on the wrist. Now back to work on ACoF for me…

_(coeptus) _

Remus Lupin quietly descended the stairs several hours after everyone else had gone to bed. His thoughts had not seemed disposed to sleep, and he knew there were few cures in the world for insomnia comparable to a hot cup of tea. Lupin would content himself on chamomile and try not to dwell on the lunar cycle. The full moon was almost two weeks away, and then it would be back to the den again to live in filth among mutineers of the natural world. Lupin preferred not to think of it, but his rests from Order work among the werewolves of London seemed to be growing shorter every month. Each successive full moon seemed to race toward him as the orbital sped around the earth. Already he was beginning to feel its affects in his tired joints. Lupin's world was without peace these days, a never ending sequence of weeks before and weeks after the night of the full moon, when before his body ached with the gravitational pull that would tear the monster right out of him that night. And afterward he ached with a different breed of pain—a pain cultivated in stinking pits below the earth where Lupin would force himself to spar with others of his kind just so he would never remain idle enough—or strong enough—to seek out those uninfected aboveground.

As he approached the living room, the floorboard beneath his foot squealed with Lupin's weight, and he cursed himself twice for his carelessness—once for the startling noise in the stillness of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and again for the way it seemed to have alerted his presence to the young girl sitting with her legs folded under her on the couch by the window. Hermione glanced sharply at the doorway from where he assumed she'd been looking out the one small window. It was her favored thinking spot, he reminded himself. More reason to escape into the kitchen to scare up a kettle for his tea. For one childish second, the idea crossed his mind that she perhaps hadn't seen him, and he could hurry across the living room toward the dining room without having to acknowledge her. But that would be absurdly impolite, and Lupin could not bring himself to behave rudely toward the girl, no matter how uncomfortable she made him.

"Are we going to make a habit of these meetings?" he whispered conversationally, forcing a smile as he crossed the room in a deliberate stride for the door. He tried to make it appear very plain that he had no intention of stopping to torment the girl—or to allow her torment of him.

Hermione replied, "I suppose," in a guarded tone. She made no attempt at a smile, raised a teacup briefly to her lips from where she'd been holding it in her lap, and went on staring out of the window.

At once, Lupin had the peculiar impression that he'd done something to upset her. In his nagging confusion and attempt to recall what he had said or done to offend the girl, Lupin found that he had frozen halfway across the room, near the couch. He realized suddenly that he had seen very little of Hermione in the last couple of days, and had not spoken with her since the evening they had shared the embrace that continued to plague his dreams. He had distantly recognized her absence from his routine and had counted it a blessing because it had meant he'd been free of the torture for however small a time. But now he had the suspicion it had not been chance that had kept them from meeting, but Hermione's own avoidance of him.

Sometimes, Lupin thought, girls could be such a mystery.

"Are you all right, Miss Granger?" he asked mildly.

"Hmm?" she said, tearing her gaze from the window. "Oh," she said, "just deep in thought." She seemed to consider his presence before the couch with vague interest and then asked, "Would you like some tea, Professor?"

He tried to tell her no—that he preferred to take his tea in seclusion and he'd just be running along to the kitchen now, thank her. But to his horror the words that fell from his lips were, "Yes, of course."

She grinned placidly, raised her teacup-free hand, which was grasping her wand, and gestured delicately with a flick of her wrist. A porcelain cup with hand-painted violets encircling the rim appeared in the air before Lupin. It was full of dark, fragrant tea. With an astonished lift of his brows, he accepted the cup and murmured, "How did you conjure—"

"I didn't," she said quietly. "It's sort of a trick, actually. I make the tea beforehand and vanish it in the teacups with a temporary obliteration charm. I can call them back one by one with cancellation spells—it's really quite handy."

Lupin felt a swell of pride at her impressive display of magic. He forced neutrality into his voice and said, "I must admit, Hermione, that's very advanced."

"I haven't perfected it yet," she replied modestly. "How's the temperature?"

He brought the cup obligingly to his lips and sipped the smooth, minty brew. "It's warm, to be honest," he told her, slightly fearful it would upset her.

Hermione seemed not to mind, though. She stretched her arm forward and touched the tip of her wand to the side of Lupin's teacup. The porcelain base grew hot against his palm and wisps of steam rose from the surface of the amber-green liquid. He smiled appreciatively at the girl and tried the tea again, feeling his throat warm pleasantly at the touch of the hot liquid. "Thank you," he murmured, staring down into Hermione's brown eyes.

"You did mean _warm_ as in not-hot-enough, didn't you?" she wondered apologetically.

"Yes," he replied quickly to convince her of his sincerity, "yes, I did. It's much better this way, thank you."

She smiled and stared down into the contents of her own cup, musing, "There is nothing quite like a nice, hot cup of tea…" Then she glanced at the couch beside her and back at Lupin again, asking, "Would you please sit, Professor?"

Still befuddled and strangely intrigued by her listless mood, Lupin murmured, "I'd like that," and lowered himself onto the seat beside her. She looked so young sitting there curled against the arm of the couch with her legs folded under her. The girl's feet were close to Lupin's half of the sofa, and he could not help but notice how small and graceful they looked. The alignment of her slender toes was perfect, the nails clipped and shining with clear polish. Her ankles, peeking out from beneath the hems of her cotton pajama pants, looked smooth and sculpted. With several deft movements, Lupin thought, he could sneak a hand forward over the cushion and slip his fingers around one of those tiny ankles. Perhaps he would find her skin cold under his touch, he thought, and he would have to take both ankles in his hands to warm them. And then maybe he would scoot closer to her, and maybe she would lean against him and he would hold her on the couch for hours until the sun rose in the sky beyond the one grimy window.

"Can I ask you something of a personal nature?"

Lupin blinked and the vision dissipated, replaced by the image of Hermione still curled against the far arm of the sofa and most certainly not in his embrace. His mind groped at what she had said, struggling to make sense of the words. "Of course," he replied at last.

Hermione seemed to be making it a point not to look at him just then. Her thumb absently stroked the handle of her teacup and she said, "Professor, weren't you—that is…I was under the impression that you and Tonks were something of an item."

His heart had fallen to the vicinity of his navel. "Were you under that impression?" he asked in a bit of a daze.

She had met his stare with resolve in her features. "Were _you_ something of an item?" she demanded softly.

"There were never any mutual feelings of attraction between Nymphadora and me," he answered at once, feeling his annoyance boil to the surface. Here was the issue of that woman glaring openly and inescapably between them, and only moments ago he had fantasized about touching Hermione on the ankle just to see if her skin was indeed as smooth as it looked.

"It had seemed not so very long ago," she replied, "that wasn't the case. At least you didn't mention it that night in the hospital wing…"

Lupin fought a sudden urge to spring up from the couch and get as far away from her as possible. Who did she think she was to go snooping around in other people's affairs like Molly Weasley? Well, if Hermione thought she could meddle enough to warm his cold heart for Nymphadora Tonks, then she was wrong. She was wrong, just like Molly and Dumbledore and Kingsley had been wrong.

"The reasons I gave that night," he answered firmly, "were valid reasons but they were not my only ones. I gave them simply because I did not wish to disgrace her by bringing up the past; we have at best a terse and sordid history." He paused and worked up the nerve to ask, "Why the sudden interest in my dealings, Hermione?" His voice sounded much harsher in his ears than he had intended.

Maybe she had noticed it, too, for there was a slightly stricken look about the girl's expression. "I was just curious," she murmured after a moment. "I spoke with Tonks a couple days ago before breakfast, and she seemed as though she'd been deeply hurt by someone."

It hung there in the air between them, humming menacingly in their silence like the accusation he was fairly sure she'd intended it for. Lupin cleared his throat and said, "I had tried many times before to make her understand I could not pursue a relationship with her, but she persisted. Since that night at Hogwarts, I had a bit of a forceful discussion with her. I made it very plain I would never return her affections. So naturally it follows she would feel a bit of animosity. It's nothing to be concerned about," he added gruffly. "I've taken care of it."

Hermione nodded as though she understood the situation perfectly. Then something even more inexplicable happened; her brown eyes filled with tears. "I felt so badly for Tonks," she said, her sweet voice choked with emotion. "I wanted so much to be furious at you for having hurt her—and maybe a year ago, or a month ago, I would have been—but it was just too childish. I mean, I didn't even know about the bad blood between you, and it was really none of my business to have an opinion, but I just couldn't—" She raised a hand to her face and brushed away tears with her fingertips. When she spoke again, her voice was steady, but she did not look in his direction. "I didn't want to think unkindly of you, Professor," she whispered. "That wouldn't be fair of me."

Lupin felt suddenly as though he had to tell her everything. The others had railed on and on about the advantages of a match with Nymphadora Tonks. They had berated Lupin for disregarding her and told him all about the emotional trauma his coldness was causing her. Hermione, however, was starkly different. She had simply sat there weeping that her pity for one friend could not sour her respect for another. She didn't seem to regard her place in the matter as matchmaker and meddler, after all. She was an outsider in the affair. And that fact alone made Lupin eager to bring her within the walls of his troubles. He wanted to be utterly truthful with this girl, and emerge at the other end of honesty with her respect for him still intact.

"Hermione," he said softly, and the changed quality of his voice earned another earnest look, "Nymphadora and I made a mistake. About a year ago, I was still mourning the loss of Sirius. Nymphadora had been making her designs upon me common knowledge for quite a while by that time, regardless of my disinterest. I was missing my childhood friend, and it stirred up many of the same feelings for James and Lily all over again. I drank too much one night—that's not an excuse, Hermione," he told her seriously, "but I want you to understand the situation. I was drunk and Nymphadora made herself available to me. We slept together, and the next day—after an exquisite hangover—I confronted her and told her it had been an unwise decision on both our parts, and that it would be best if we ignored it."

The girl's brows were knit together, her mouth a thin and disapproving line worthy of Minerva McGonagall. If it had not been for the disarming softness of her brown eyes as they gazed into his, Lupin would have thought she was glaring at him. There was something almost like pity in her expression, and it turned his stomach where thoughts of what little he remembered of that night had already churned in disgust. There had been no passion between him and Nymphadora when they were together, Lupin remembered, only a hungry sort of need for physical contact. They had not even kissed.

He forced thoughts of that night from his mind and focused on the girl sitting beside him on the couch. "It was never my intention to hurt anyone," he went on. "From the talk I had with her the day after, I was sure we'd arrived at the conclusion of our mutual responsibility for the event. She had known I had no feelings for her and threw herself at me anyway as soon as I'd become impaired, and I quite unthinkingly took advantage of the situation because I was in pain. We were both adults, and we were equally to blame. Or so I thought," he sighed. "Nymphadora relapsed shortly after. She became moody and given to bouts of depression, and she went about suffering her unrequited and exploited affection for me to anyone who would listen. Suddenly what had happened was entirely my fault," he added bitterly, "and I was in denial, and how could I abandon her when we needed each other the most?"

"But you didn't love her," Hermione whispered. "Surely she must have seen that."

Lupin blinked at her, taken aback. Could it be that one female who had heard Nymphadora's story actually sided with him? He swallowed, feeling wonderfully as though he had finally found someone to whom he could confide himself utterly without fear of judgment, and said, "I'm not certain she wanted to see it. Nymphadora is…a very willful person. Once she gets an idea in her head, it isn't easy for her to let it go. Hence, the reason for our more recent confrontation—and what I hope will be the last one." He sighed, feeling helpless. "I tried, Hermione," he said honestly. "I tried so hard to find it in myself to return her affection. I even thought for a while I could force it, that perhaps she would love me enough for the both of us, and my lack of feeling for her wouldn't matter. I thought surely I was broken, that there was something horribly wrong with me. Here was this pretty young woman, unyieldingly fond of me, and I couldn't seem to find her ostentatious behavior, her impulsiveness and stubbornness remotely charming. After all, I could not fake an attraction to her, in spite of my fears that I would end up—alone." His voice ended on an awkward note.

"You're not going to end up alone," the girl said with a shake of her head and a tone that suggested even an idea of the contrary was rubbish. She sipped at her tea and went on mildly, "I appreciate your honesty, Professor. While I can't say I'm necessarily impressed by anything you did, it seems you've labored under more than your share of guilt and regret. And I must admit I'm a bit surprised at Tonks. I knew she was _insistent_, but I never would have guessed…" She left the thought unfinished and wondered with a curious tilt of her head toward him, "Would you say you've ever been in love, Professor?"

Lupin was suddenly at a loss for words. What could she have to gain by knowing something like that? Perhaps she felt the need to monitor his personal life. As reasonable as her little speech had proved her, perhaps Hermione had decided to take it upon herself to study in preparation for the next woman she could warn of Lupin's issues with commitment or whatever else was wrong with him. He thought seriously for a moment of all the relationships he'd had, struggling to find the least incriminating answer for her. Of course he had been romantically involved with several girls late in his schooling career, but he had been too young then to understand love—not that Lupin understood it any better now, he thought. There had been a year or two, he was convinced, that he had come very close to falling genuinely in love with Lily Evans, but his loyalty to James Potter finally overcame that fixation, and he had not felt as strongly about any member of the opposite sex since.

Prepared with an answer he was sure would be satisfactory, Lupin met Hermione's eyes and his theory came crashing down around his ankles. Ironically, he thought of the slender ankles he had been a shred of self-control away from touching in wondrous curiosity. He thought of the delicacies of her changing expression, the shape of her mouth, the sweet scent of her hair and all the kindness of her heart that she had poured into his searing wounds only days before. And Lupin knew in the same moment that he was thrillingly and dangerously close to falling in love sincerely for the first time in his life.

The girl was staring so expectantly at him, her eyebrows arched in what he wanted to call hopeful curiosity, and Lupin knew any answer he gave other than a bold affirmation would have been a lie. He swallowed a nervous lump in his throat, aware his heart had begun to beat rapidly in his chest, and said, "I've certainly been…_fond_…of a lady before. Smitten, perhaps." When his own voice reached his ears, Lupin wished he sink down through the couch and end up in the cellar; it had been the weakest combination of words to have ever left his mouth.

But Hermione did not seem to find his answer as pathetic as he feared. Her smile became a bit watery as tears gathered on her lower lids, and suddenly Lupin realized she had bested him at a game he had not realized they'd been playing. All at once she seemed to gather her composure from the verge of tears. "Well, the tea has done its job," she said seriously, eyeing the inside of her empty cup. "I'll be running along to bed now." She stood from her place at the couch and vanished the empty teacup with a flick of her wand. Lupin likewise stood, setting aside his own cup and inclining his head politely to the girl. Hermione fixed him with a calculating look and said, "What happened between you and Tonks is your own business. I'm disappointed, but I'll have to live with it. You're a grown man and you make your own decisions. I'm happy with that." Her lips twitched upward in a grin and she said, "I'm very happy with that. You made an impression on me since third year," she whispered, still beaming. "You open your mouth and I hear wisdom. It's refreshing. No matter what comes of it, Professor Lupin, I want to take a chance."

He was still wondering how this factored into her role as the fussing mother hen, when Hermione stepped toward him, stood on her toes and did something decidedly un-motherly. She pressed her lips to his. Tentatively, surprisingly, wonderfully, she kissed him on the mouth, laying the lightest touch of her hand to his chest. Lupin blinked into her cheek as her lips moved against his. It was as if everything else had ceased to be for Remus Lupin. He was of two worlds now, two existences wrought with their own spectacular disappointments and thrilling possibilities. He had lived his entire life in one world with Hermione Granger as his acquaintance and former pupil, and he had been slowly dying all the time. The other, newer world was the one he found himself blinking into, the one in which Hermione's kiss was like the sun on his face. It was a world to which he wanted to belong, into which he wanted to escape, and survive.

So when the lips on his own became still and pulled away, when the hand left his chest and the girl before him moved as if to leave, Lupin did the only sensible thing a man wanting to survive would do. He took Hermione in his arms, brought her flush with the front of his body and crushed his mouth to hers. The fervor with which he initially claimed her lips eased quickly and comfortably into a softness that even he found startling. His eyes rolled shut. Soon, and quite without his consent, he felt his tongue roam forward and lick the seam of her lips, silently entreating her mouth for entrance. He ran his tongue across the slick enamel of her upper teeth, finding the sharp ridge and prodding it upward, easing his way deeper into the kiss and gently opening her mouth for access. With a flash of his eyes to her face, Lupin found that she looked as euphoric as he felt.

He toyed with Hermione, engulfing her in a series of prolonged open-mouth kisses. Several times while moving his mouth against hers, his tongue slipped forward and glided over the inside of her lower lip, searching for its counterpart in her mouth. He eventually found Hermione's soft tongue lying shyly at the bottom of her mouth, and he coaxed it gently. The girl's breath hitched. Lupin opened his eyes and watched her while they kissed, his own body answering with waves of pleasure at each flutter of her closed eyelids, each puff of exhalation from her soft nose against the stubble of his cheek, each helpless mewl against his mouth. His trousers had grown uncomfortably tight across the lap, but he could not bring himself to care.

Kissing Hermione was unlike anything he had known before. He wanted to utterly possess her mouth with his tongue, but before he could, she had obviously decided he'd had enough, or else she was afraid of him, or perhaps tormenting him. Hermione parted from his mouth with a soft wet sound and gazed listlessly up into his eyes. She bit her lower lip, which looked pink and abused. Lupin realized her hands had traveled to his shoulders sometime before, and her fingertips were ten points of pressure grounding him to reality. He resisted the urge to force his mouth on hers again and instead concentrated on the contours of her waist beneath his hands. There was so much he wanted to tell her, and yet Lupin found there was nothing at all to say.

Perhaps she felt the same, for at length she smiled courageously and said, "Good night, then, Professor Lupin." But it was no longer the tease it had been. It no longer fostered in him frustration and self-loathing. Now it was a comforting sound, an exciting promise that things would not go back to being awkward between them. He was not just stodgy old Professor Lupin, he realized. He was _her_ Professor Lupin. Suddenly he felt as though the name Hermione called him was the most precious gift he'd ever been given.

"Good night, Miss Granger," he replied, and the breathless little laugh that escaped her lips told him she felt similarly. Her fingers slipped down from his shoulders and grazed his sides, and Lupin found it difficult to allow his hands to leave her waist as she stepped away. Only when Hermione had disappeared through the door in the direction of her room did the spell seem to fade.

Lupin's stomach gave a weak lurch. She was just a girl, he told himself, and twenty years his junior—a feasible age to be his daughter. Lupin was suddenly sick with guilt for making the kiss go on the way he had. Hermione obviously didn't know what she was getting herself into. She respected him, that much was obvious, but could she really trust him not to force himself on her again and take their next kiss to heights of passion she did not care to visit with him? And then what, asked a loathsome voice in the back of his head. Did Lupin think himself emotionally fit enough to nurture this relationship, or would he call it off the very next day, like he had with Nymphadora?

Lupin banished those thoughts from his mind out of necessity and forced himself to go to bed. His sleep was more tortured than ever considering Hermione's returned affection, which he should have found a comfort. He woke early the next morning, feeling lightheaded and delirious. He lay awake for a while, blinking up at the ceiling and thinking of the girl who had so quickly risen to the height of his affections. Was she awake yet, he wondered, perhaps lying under her sheets and entertaining similar doubts as the ones plaguing him? Or was she sleeping peacefully, satisfied that her new interest would be a rewarding one? The solidness of the ceiling did not falter to give him a clue or a glimpse of the girl in her bed upstairs, and after a moment Lupin arose, dressed and went downstairs in search of breakfast.

Several people, including Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley, were already seated at the table, eating and carrying on mild conversations. Lupin felt his stomach lurch strangely when he saw his peers, and a familiar voice in the back of his head whispered with venom, what will they think when it comes out to all of the Order that Remus Lupin has entered into a relationship with a seventeen year-old girl? To what lengths will Nymphadora Tonks go to cause him serious physical harm? Lupin scolded himself for thinking of Nymphadora at a time like this, when he should feel so young and invincible as the object of Hermione's affection. With some effort, the insurgent train of thought dissipated, and Lupin took a seat several places down from Arthur, who was muttering something in scandalized tones to a wizard at his side.

"Remus!" said Arthur's voice as soon as he'd sat down. "So what do _you_ think of this new development? Quite a shock, eh?"

Lupin glanced over at him, gave both Arthur and his companion what he hoped was an innocent look, and asked, "New development?"

"You mean you've not heard? They've only just decided it late last night," he said with a dismissive gesture. "Apparently the meeting with the Wizengamot was quite a secret, too. They've chosen a new headmaster for Hogwarts: Severus Snape—can you imagine it?"

Lupin's mouth felt suddenly very dry. "Snape?" he wondered mildly, though beneath the surface he boiled anew with hatred for the traitor that had taken Albus Dumbledore's life.

"Indeed," said Arthur, giving his companion a knowing glance. "Headmaster Snape. What's to become of us all?"

Not particularly keen on giving the subject more consideration than necessary, Lupin turned his attention to breakfast and helped himself to warm bread and sausage. A handful of people filed slowly into the dining room, with Alastor Moody and the Weasley twins among them. They ate in relative peace for a few moments, until the door opened and a fiery redhead led a small procession into the room. The redhead was Ginny Weasley, flanked closely by Harry. Behind them came an anxious-looking Ronald and—Lupin's heart leapt—Hermione. He tried very hard not to look at her as she entered, and suddenly it occurred to him he had no idea how to behave around her. He had not thought to ask her if their overtures were to be publicized, or if perhaps the girl would be too humiliated to be seen with an old man. Lupin did the safest thing he could think to do; he ignored the quartet's entrance and went on eating his breakfast. He must have made the correct decision, for Hermione made no suspicious movements that Lupin could see from the corner of his eye as she passed his place at the table.

Ginny led the gang to a spot several seats away from Lupin and drew up short beside her father. "Dad, look here," she said, tossing a folded copy of _The Daily Prophet_ over his plate and immediately demanding, "Well?"

"Yes, I suspected you children would be concerned about the new headmaster," Arthur said carefully.

Ginny huffed, "Nevermind that smarmy git! Look there on page—"

"I _told_ you we should be worried," Ron groaned. "All the world's coming to an now end with Snape as headmaster."

Hermione sighed demurely and asked, "Honestly, Ronald, did you actually think we'd be going back to Hogwarts this year?"

_That_ one came as a surprise to Lupin, who had always thought Hermione too invested in her education to allow even Voldemort himself to stop her going to school.

"You're getting us off-subject, Ron," Ginny howled in frustration. "Forget the cover story, dad—look at page four!"

Lupin considered the redhead's little outburst commotion enough for him to turn toward the newcomers and feign detached interest, though his eyes strayed almost at once to Hermione's face, and lingered there. She looked radiant, in an early-morning, unkempt sort of way. Her creamy skin soon flushed a light pink color under his scrutiny. Lupin hoped no one had noticed as he tore his eyes from her face and instead focused on what was going on between the redhead and her father.

"'…_will perform 4 p.m. Saturday in Diagon Alley outside The Leakey Cauldron_,'" Arthur was reading from the paper at his daughter's urging. "'_Admission is free and open to witches and wizards of all ages. "Come out and show your support for freedom to gather in the face of paranoia," said band manager Rooney_…'—You know, Ginerva," Arthur interjected, looking up from the article, "I don't see what this has to do with any of you."

"We mean to go, of course," she told him bluntly.

"Go? Well, I don't know…"

"Come on, dad," Ron chimed in, "it's just a bit of fun."

"I thought it was more of a _statement_, actually," said Hermione.

"—It's ruddy brilliant, that's what it is," said Fred from across the table. "With The Weird Sisters doing a charity gig for morale, I'm sure the demand for their work is just skyrocketing. It's likely they're booked solid for performances for the next year."

"Say, there's an idea," added George. "We'll start giving away free edible Dark Marks—to show our support for hilarity in the face of paranoia, of course."

Fred went on, "It'll be a marketing move so noble, the anti-You-Know-Who supporters will come swarming in."

"—Wicked," they said in unison, grinning at one another.

"The article only says 'freedom to gather in the face of paranoia,'" Arthur said to his daughter. "We can't be sure what that means. Don't you children think you might be rushing into a situation we know little about? It could be dangerous."

"Mr. Weasley, I don't think Lord Voldemort will come out in the middle of the afternoon to see a music band perform," Harry interjected quietly, "and to kill some Muggle-born wizards on his way home."

"This is hardly a joking matter, Harry," Arthur said in a slightly injured tone.

"—What's this about you lot going to a concert?" asked Molly's voice from across the room, and Lupin saw that she'd come in from the kitchen with her wand pointed at a tray full of mugs that was levitated at chest-height.

"Ginny's asking to go see The Weird Sisters in Diagon Alley this Saturday," Arthur told her.

"Diagon Alley?" Mrs. Weasley repeated with a furrowed brow. "Nonsense. She'll do nothing of the sort. Now," she went on, apparently, to pleasanter things, "I made a nice pot of coffee this morning, for a change. Who'll have some? Kingsley—there's a good lad." She flicked her wand and one of the steaming mugs floated down to the tabletop in front of the nearby Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Mum, you don't understand," Ginny protested bravely, "they're doing it in the face of Lord Voldemort—" Ron twitched mutely behind his sister "—to show they're not afraid to go out in public. Don't you see we have to go?"

"You will do nothing of the sort, young lady," Molly insisted, moving down the table toward her daughter and occasionally levitating a mug of coffee with a flick of her wrist to land before anyone who nodded or volunteered a hand as she passed. "I'll not have my daughter running around helplessly in a place like Diagon Alley."

"We'll all be going, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, "so I wouldn't call her _helpless_."

Alastor spoke up for the first time, interjecting his opinion into what had been more of a family affair until then: "Harry, don't you think a bit of caution would be wise before rushing into something like this?"

"—I'm going," Harry said firmly, and Ginny beamed at him.

"Well," Mr. Weasley sighed, "if you're intent on being there, we might as well assign a guard. Nymphadora will do for the occasion, I suppose, and maybe Kingsley."

"What do you mean, Arthur?" Molly demanded. "You're not thinking of letting them go, are you?"

"Harry and Hermione are both of age, Molly, and they're not ours to disallow from attending. If they want to go, then it would be better to send them with reinforcements, wouldn't you say?"

While Mrs. Weasley glared at him, going steadily red in the face, Ginny clapped her hands and said, "Oh, daddy, thank you!"

"Don't shower all your gratitude on me," he replied. "The concert's still several days away, which gives your mother plenty of time to cook up some plan to keep you home. I wouldn't put it past her to physically restrain you," he added under his breath, but the narrowing of Molly's eyes behind his back was proof enough that she had heard him.

"Thanks, mum," Ginny said, skipping around her father and throwing her arms about Molly's torso. Mrs. Weasley muttered something darkly, but Ginny pulled an anxious expression and exclaimed, "I've got to find something decent to wear Saturday!" before dashing out of the room again.

"And _she_ was the one going on about how it's a political stand, and not a party," Ron grumbled over Harry's shoulder.

Harry grinned at the joke, but Hermione objected, "I've been saying that, too, Ronald."

The redhead gave her a deeply suspicious look and asked, "Are you still going to be saying it Saturday?"

"Well—it might be a bit of fun, after all," Hermione said with a devastating grin.

Molly had been staring at the doorway where her youngest had disappeared a moment before, and she broke her daze long enough to shake her head and huff, "Oh, you children had better look after one another!"

"I'll see that nothing happens to them, Molly," said Kingsley's rich voice across the table.

Lupin thought it a safe time to add, "Be careful, all of you."

Harry gave him an appreciative nod and Ron, a nervous dart of his eyes. But a smile so giddy and full of fondness and amusement flickered across Hermione's face that Lupin felt himself grin back at her. The girl's smile warmed him like the shape of her body against him had warmed Lupin the night before, and the smile was gone as quickly as he'd seen it. Then he realized Harry was saying something about how they'd all be very careful, and the grin slid from his face.

"I'd better go help Ginny before she works herself up into a fit," Hermione observed. "She's still not convinced the sundress she owns is flattering."

"Er—maybe I should pick out something nicer, too," Harry mused, sounding genuinely puzzled. "Just so Ginny doesn't feel overdressed, that is."

"Blimey," Ron groaned, turning to follow Harry, who had made for the door. "This was supposed to be _fun_…"

Hermione laughed at their retreating figures. Then she turned back to the adults. "I suppose I'll see you at lunch, Mrs. Weasley," she said to Molly, who no longer looked red in the face, but utterly startled, for some reason. "Mr. Weasley," Hermione said, nodding briefly to Arthur. "Professor Lupin," she said.

Lupin inclined his head to the girl before she walked away. When Hermione had gone, he returned to the matter of his breakfast, along with the rest of the dining room, he assumed. Idle conversation returned to the table and Lupin realized someone was still hovering near Arthur Weasley. He glanced that way to find Molly, her wand hand poised and the tray still hovering, but her eyes had gone wide and her shocked expression had turned slightly wild as she stared at Lupin. She seemed to not be breathing.

"Molly?" he wondered gently.

She stammered, "You—You!" Arthur looked around at her curiously.

"I beg your pardon," Lupin said mildly, although a cold chill had set in near his gut.

Molly staggered forward several steps, her jowls quivering madly and her eyes blazing. "_You_," she spat again. "You're twice her—"

_Age_, a dry voice within Lupin's head wanted to finish for her, and a thrill of fear told him she knew everything about him and Hermione, though he could not guess how. Molly seemed to suddenly realize where she was and what she was saying. She glanced around the company at the table, a few of whom had looked up apprehensively at her outburst. Lupin forced himself to stay calm and only hoped none of them would make a connection, but he did not dare correct her or ask for clarification. After a moment, Molly retrieved the last steaming mug with her wand-free hand and slammed it unceremoniously down in front of Lupin, sloshing some of the dark liquid over the lip and onto the table. Then she eyed her empty tray and growled, "I'm out of coffee," to no one in particular before stomping back toward the kitchen.

When she'd gone, Lupin swallowed and refused to meet any of the surprised glances his direction. Instead, he stared into the mug of coffee he had neither desired nor asked for, as if the drink held some clue as to how Molly Weasley had found him out.


	8. Chapter 7

Forgive the delay. This chapter was so long that, along with the help of Marble Meadow (thank you, my favorite-and-only-beta!) I decided to split it into three separate chapters. The next should be out soon; it requires just a bit more tweaking.

For my purposes, Hermione has her own bedroom (not for _those_ purposes, you perverts…not yet, anyway). I think I've described headquarters as being about three times as large in this story as it should be. My only defense is: They're wizards. They can magic on more rooms. Too lazy for you? Eh…

_(coeptus)_

The events of that day ran all together for Hermione. She found herself unendingly occupied since that moment at breakfast when she smiled at him and he grinned back, meeting her eyes in a fraction of a second that seemed to belong only to them. As much as she desired to speak with Professor Lupin or at least be near him now that they both understood what the awkwardness and tension between them had meant, Hermione was suddenly engrossed in the obligation of friendship. Ginny had been quickly charged that morning with a list of exceptionally redundant chores; there were rugs to be beaten that had already been thoroughly cleaned last week, immaculate shelves in the library that required dusting, and floors that needed scrubbing in areas that Mrs. Weasley described as "well-trafficked," but also proved to be inconveniently located beneath large carpets and heavy items of furniture.

Hermione would not leave her friend to the impossible task of doing it all alone, and naturally she volunteered her services to the cause. Ron found much better things to do between the pages of a weekly Quidditch magazine—leave it to him to read only at a time when the alternative would be manual labor. Harry at least endeavored to make himself appear useful, though he was actually more of a distraction for Ginny. When it was finally realized Hermione was picking up more than her share of the work, Ginny quickly shooed Harry from the room and Hermione was filled with renewed appreciation for her friend.

Soon the girls agreed it was all a ploy of Mrs. Weasley's to stop her daughter going to the concert Saturday.

"I'll never beg for mercy," the red-haired girl hissed as she stood on a chair, swatting a feather duster viciously at the topmost shelf of books. "And if that woman thinks she can drag you into this and keep you from going, Hermione, then she's mistaken."

Hermione smiled vaguely but said nothing as she continued to pull down books one by one from the second shelf and ran a soft cloth lovingly over each weathered binding. Despite Hermione being of age, she had chosen to use Muggle efforts along with Ginny to complete the list of chores, although she was distracted enough that it made little difference to her. She was listening carefully to her friend as they conversed together in the library shortly after lunch, but her heart was somewhere else entirely, fluttering helplessly up into her throat every few minutes when she remembered his kind face grinning up at her from his place at the breakfast table. Rushing brazenly into his arms the night before and then not so much as speaking with him alone since was an unbearable tease. It was like reading the first few pages of a very promising book and then having to set that book aside for a whole day. Hermione's imagination roamed through possibilities, wondering with agony what the players would do next, and what kind of delightful conflict would arise in the pages to come. In the girl's version of the unfinished tome, the only conflict involved which kind of tea to brew, and whether that infernal moustache would go with his next infrequent shave.

Hermione chuckled at another one of Ginny's jokes and went to work on the third shelf.

As the afternoon wore on, she became convinced she would not encounter Professor Lupin at all, since he seemed to make himself just as scarce that day as Ronald had at the prospect of helping the girls. She didn't meet him in the house as she and Ginny moved on to new tasks, and the thought put an unpleasant knot in her stomach. Was he avoiding her intentionally, or did he perhaps have some sort of business to attend to away from headquarters? Hermione didn't have time between chores to investigate, and she'd since given up on the hope of seeing him again that day when at last she made her way down from the attic late that afternoon sometime before dinner. She'd finished vanishing the cobwebs and sweeping the dust up there, and she meant to return the broom to the cupboard in the kitchen while Ginny mopped up the last square of floor.

Hermione, covered in grime, her sinuses raw with dust, feeling exhausted and in need of a bath, had descended the stairs onto the second level of the house and was already halfway down the hall when she looked up and straight into the familiar, lined face of Remus Lupin. He looked tired and a bit anxious, Hermione thought, but he still managed a grin at her arrival. The girl felt her own mouth respond in kind, when she remembered Ginny had nearly been finished with her work a moment ago and was now undoubtedly close behind. Hermione was compelled for some reason to keep her affection for Professor Lupin discreet, at least until she could talk with him about the situation. Hermione quickly closed the distance between them, threw her hand forward to grasp his, and stood on her toes to speak into his ear.

"Come to my room tonight after the others have gone to bed," she whispered urgently, hoping no one in the surrounding rooms could overhear. Only when she pulled away from him did Hermione realize how scandalous her demand must have sounded. The professor was a bit pale and his eyes had widened apprehensively. "I want to talk with you," she clarified, fighting the laugh that threatened to possess her at the sight of his reaction. He was irresistibly charming when he was flustered.

Professor Lupin didn't say anything, but the answering pressure of his fingers in hers was enough of a reply. The way his expression softened from his usual mask of weariness into something much more reminiscent of his true age told Hermione he would do as she'd asked. She regretfully prized her fingers out of his as she heard footfalls on the staircase behind her.

"Miss Granger," he said quickly, nodding as he swept past her, and Hermione knew her friend was in sight on the other staircase without having to look. "Miss Weasley," the professor's voice acknowledged somewhere behind her, and the girl felt her feet turn in the direction of the sound against her will.

"Hullo, Lupin," Ginny drawled wearily as she passed the man on his way to the last door on the left. The young Weasley's eyes brightened on Hermione, and she gave a tired little smile.

Hermione found it difficult to reciprocate, now that he had reached his bedroom door and paused unnecessarily with his hand on the knob. He was gazing over Ginny's head at her with a peculiar and almost sad expression, and Hermione forced herself to look away and return her friend's smile.

"Come on, then, Hermione," Ginny said. "Let's get this stuff back to the cupboard. I could do with a shower." Hermione murmured a half-hearted agreement. By the time she and her friend had reached the top of the last staircase, the soft click of a door closing in the hallway behind her was evidence the professor had returned to his room.

It was nearly an hour later when both girls had sufficiently washed and made their way to the dining room in time to be enlisted with setting the table. Dinner was a somber and awful affair for Hermione. Aside from there being fewer partakers than usual and therefore less conversation, Hermione found she had nothing to add to the repartee of her friends as they speculated about the upcoming concert. Her thoughts lingered on the unnaturally reticent presence of Professor Lupin, whose silence dwarfed her own, even from the other end of the table. She wanted nothing more than for the meal to end and the occupants of the house to excuse themselves to early beds, if only it meant she could ask the professor why he seemed more disheartened than usual.

For several agonizing moments, Hermione's thoughts again entertained the idea that he had been purposely avoiding her all day. Perhaps, she thought, he didn't want to speak with her or see her or even acknowledge the brief moment of unveiled affection they had shared with one another the night before. Maybe he didn't really want to be near her at all. Maybe Hermione's initiation had been merely a trigger for pent-up passion; Professor Lupin hadn't been with another woman since his encounter with Tonks a year before, and Hermione's kiss the previous night had been an invitation for release. With a thrill of horror, she realized she'd behaved no more responsibly than Tonks. Professor Lupin couldn't help himself; he was lonely. But of course he didn't care for her at all. He was right to avoid her.

No, said a firm, clear voice near the base of Hermione's skull, he had to care for her in some fashion. It was the voice that always narrated whenever she read a good historical book, and the same voice that recalled answers to exam questions the girl was certain she knew. It was logic. And it told her no man would smile as Professor Lupin had that morning who did not feel genuine affection. So something must have spooked him. She glanced up at the kind and familiar face bent over his place at the far end of the table, noting the withdrawn expression, and felt as though she almost couldn't wait to get him on his own to ask what was troubling him. Stronger even than that sensation was Hermione's urge to go over to him, pull her fingers through those mousy brown, gray-streaked bangs, kiss his forehead and tell him it would all work out for the best.

But Hermione was forced to wait a bit longer to have her wish granted, as dinner had yet to wind down, and the house had even longer to resolve finally into that sleepy quiet that meant everyone who called headquarters home had finally retired to his or her respective room. Once in her room, the girl paced at the foot of her four poster bed as the minutes wore on, wondering if he would keep the silent promise she'd seen in his hazel eyes. Hermione checked and revised the muffling charms she'd placed on her walls and door, remembered at the last moment to cast one on the floor to ward against creaking floorboards that would be indicative of movement to the lower-level inhabitants of the house. After several more nervous turns before her bed, Hermione went so far as to consider charming the ceiling, when a polite knock sounded through her door.

"Enter," she said softly, not risking his name in case it was someone else dropping by to check on her. The knob turned slowly at her instruction and the door swung inward several inches. The hallway was quite dark beyond the sliver of a gap between the door and the frame, but the soft light from the lamp on her bedside table was just enough to reach the man who was standing outside her door. Hermione could not mistake the kind features—the thoughtfully lined brow, hazel eyes, wide nose and a chin and jaw shadowed with stubble—of the face that peered curiously into her room through the slit in the door, as if asking her permission to enter.

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat. She hurried over and threw the door open far enough to grab Professor Lupin by the wrist and usher him silently inside before pushing the door shut again. Then she murmured, "_Colloportus_," with a wave of her wand at the locking mechanism, ensuring that anyone who took to snooping would not be able to open the door. Hermione rechecked the muffling charm for weak spots around the frame of the door and strengthened those with a wave of her wand hand while she kept the other hand wrapped firmly around the professor's warm and sinewy wrist. A peculiar tingling sensation filled her as a voice in her mind—much higher and flightier than the calm voice of reason from earlier at dinner—seemed to squeal in an unbroken loop like an old Muggle record skipping under the needle, _ProfessorLupin'sinmyroomProfessorLupin'sinmyroomProfessorLupin'sinmyroomProfessorLupin'sinmyroom_…

"So you _are_ afraid to be seen with me," he mused hoarsely, but with a touch of mirth in his dry voice as the girl turned to face him.

The inane squealing in her head continued and although Hermione felt at once horrified for having upset him, she could not overlook the somewhat absent grin on his face. She realized her heart was beating very quickly within her chest, and she rattled off a lame explanation that withered and died on her lips: "I thought, things being as they are, members of the Order wouldn't understand…."

He did not agree or dissent with her reason. He lifted the hand that was not in her grasp and touched her carefully along her jaw and down the side of her neck. The pads of his fingers hovered gingerly against her flesh, as though the angle of her throat were a parabola that only his inspection could describe. It was a gesture of restraint. Hermione wondered what could be holding him back so, and why he wouldn't touch more of her. She wished he would do something romantic, like take her in his arms and kiss her. They were finally alone, damn it; why shouldn't he touch her?

"I'm sorry we couldn't speak sooner," she said with a nervous laugh, glaringly conscious of the way his fingertips lingered on her skin. "Mrs. Weasley got more inventive with Ginny's chores as the day wore on."

The girl could not detect any change in his expression, which remained as ineffable as it had been that evening. She thought his eyes flashed with something less calm, but she could not be sure. His stoic features and the still-absent pull of the corners of his mouth in a transparent grin baffled Hermione all the more when he said calmly, "Are we kidding ourselves?"

Her stomach swooped violently, as though it had tripped over some physical manifestation of her shock. She dropped his hand. "What?" Hermione breathed, trying to decide whether she had misheard it. His fingers left her skin as his hand fell to his side, but the gesture might as well have been a slap in the girl's face.

"I'm twice your age, my dear," he said gently, and still with that insufferable grin plastered on his usually honest face.

Hermione stuck out her chin and tried her best to sound brave as she replied, "It doesn't matter. We both know I'm far too old for anyone my age, anyway. I thought you didn't care about that."

"Of course _I_ don't," Professor Lupin said baldly, and the first real emotion of the night flickered across his face, dark and intense and somehow like disapproval. "There are certain people in this house—I won't say any names, but she's a mother of seven—very concerned for your wellbeing who question the wisdom of continuing with this, whatever _this_ is," he demonstrated with a sweep of his palm to the space between them.

Irritation ignited within Hermione like a small firecracker. "Mrs. Weasley must have done a number on you," she scoffed. "Will you start doing everything she says now?"

The disapproval deepened into a look of injury. "No, Hermione," he said sadly. "In the end, Molly's opinion is just that—her opinion. I will make my own decisions. And I need to know that you are informed enough to make your own. I am, after all, a great deal older—"

"—I don't care about that!"

"Hermione, please let me finish." The grin had disappeared completely. He sighed in frustration, or perhaps just in weariness, and went on, "I can never be the man that you want. I don't have the means to romance you as you ought to be romanced. I don't have the youth or the strength left in me that you deserve. I have so very little to offer you other than my respect."

"I'll take it," she said stubbornly.

He shook his head slowly. "Hermione, I can't—"

"What is it, then? Just tell me," she demanded quietly. "Are you so repulsed by the idea of being with me? That's it, isn't it? You're not attracted to me at all; I'm just another Nymphadora Tonks, throwing myself at you despite your better judgment!"

He actually winced as if she'd struck him, and Hermione was instantly sorry for her harshness. "I know I don't have the most impressive history with women," he said apologetically. "In fact, I seem to do a spectacular job of making them cry. I never wanted…Hermione, it can't be like that this time, not with you. I won't have you end up hating me. I don't want to hurt you," he finished in a whisper, his hazel eyes taking in her face with sadness and longing. His eyes paused someplace near her chin, and the girl thought he might have been looking at her lower lip.

The intent stare that grazed her mouth released a whole kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach. Hermione took a deep breath to steady herself and then risked, "That's what relationships are all about, aren't they—hurting one another and caring enough to forgive? I told you last night I was willing to take the chance. My decision won't change."

"I have nothing to give you," he said again, sounding for all purposes as though he were begging.

"How can I make you understand that I don't care about that? Because if you really understood, you wouldn't doubt me as you do. If you're afraid to admit you've no attraction to me, just say so," Hermione fumed, aware of the frustration that threatened to saturate her tone but unwilling to do anything about it.

"Hermione," he laughed a little under his breath as if he were both amused and saddened by what she had said. He dipped his head unexpectedly and brought his rough and whiskered cheek against hers. The girl felt his nose and lips nuzzle her flesh, and his breath tickled her as he murmured into her skin, "You have nothing to fear regarding attraction."

The heat of his mouth was so close to hers—his lips, so soft and insistent against the skin of her cheek. Hermione gasped feebly at the excitement it caused in her. Professor Lupin must have taken that as an invitation, because his mouth closed on hers in the same instant. She let the professor ease her slowly into the kiss. His tongue slid into her mouth, thick and wet as it stroked its counterpart out of hiding behind her bottom teeth. He was _inside_ her, Hermione thought with a thrill, and she mewled into his mouth before she could stop herself. He responded to her approval, drawing her body near with one arm across her back and crushing her close against his front as though he wanted to pull her into himself, as if they could fuse and merge at the abdomen and never have to leave this embrace again. His other hand had slipped up into her hair, and she replied by setting her own hands to the plane of his chest. Professor Lupin was by no means a man of large stature but he was broader and taller than she, broad enough for him to wrap his arms around the girl and make her feel encompassed in his form like a small child. She had never been held and kissed like this by any person of the opposite sex who was not her peer and still awaiting several growth spurts before adulthood. The excitement kindled in Hermione by the mass and heat of him was as unmistakable as the bulge she felt pressing against her hip through his trousers. Hermione thought distractedly that meeting in her bedroom late at night may have been a poor decision….

In an attempt to keep reality in focus, the girl blinked open eyes she didn't remember closing, only to find him watching her through half-closed lids. His gaze was heavy and shadowed and thrillingly content as they kissed. A wave of pleasure coursed through Hermione at the look, beginning at the base of her stomach and ending somewhere below her bladder where a knot of pressure had begun to mount. Afraid of what that tremor might lead her to do—and too weak-of-will at the moment to resist it—the girl met the departure of his lips from hers with some relief. She looked bashfully up at him from below her lashes, expecting to see the same eagerness and strength she had felt in his arms and in his lips. The expression she found instead was a wistful one, a sad earnestness and longing that rang a small alarm bell within the logical part of Hermione's brain.

"What happens now?" she asked breathlessly, trying to focus on the way his lean pectorals and upper ribs felt under his shirt, instead of other areas where their bodies pressed together.

"Now," he told her soberly, "you might consider us something of an item—that is, if you're willing to see past my numerous shortcomings."

Hermione wondered absurdly what her Hogwarts career could have been like if they had stood together like this in his office when he had been her teacher. The girl felt a silly grin tug suddenly and mercilessly at her lips. Her breath caught in her chest in a helpless laugh.

"I fail to see the humor," he muttered with a playful frown.

"I'm sorry," she giggled. "The schoolgirl in me can't get past the thought that—I'm Professor Lupin's girlfriend!"

"As much as I hate to disrupt that fantasy, I feel obligated to remind you I am no longer your professor, Hermione."

"That's a relief," she retorted, "considering some of the embraces we've shared over the last several days would have been highly illegal under different circumstances." He smiled wryly, and Hermione leaned forward and buried her face in the hollow of his neck. "You were always my favorite teacher," she mumbled into the collar of his shirt.

"You were always my brightest student," he said, his hoarse voice vibrating in his throat, "at least when it came to theory. Now, as for the practical part of the subject…." Hermione pinched his arm in retribution for the tease. Professor Lupin must have felt her smile through his shirt, because he chuckled.


	9. Chapter 8

Yay for fluff! I wanted to give you a nice moment or two before the tension begins to build over the next couple of chapters. There are still important things going on in the background, and we'll deal with those soon.

By the way, this chapter picks up immediately where the last one left off. I let some of the dialogue overlap in case it wasn't clear. I'm really happy about where this material breaks. It was the most natural decision, and it gives a bit more insight into how Lupin approaches their blossoming relationship. Enjoy.

_(coeptus)_

Lupin's hands roamed over her back as he held Hermione close and relished the fragrance of her hair and the way she pressed herself against his chest as though it were the safest place to be in the world.

"You were always my favorite teacher," Hermione mumbled into his collar.

"You were always my brightest student," he replied truthfully, deciding to evoke her legendary struggle on the Defense Against the Dark Arts exam by adding, "at least when it came to theory. Now, as for the practical part of the subject…."

He had meant it as a joke and was relieved to feel her smile through his shirt, even as she pinched his arm.

"We have to be careful who we tell," the girl sighed against him after a moment.

Lupin hoped the faint tremor of his hand on her waist did not betray the mild disappointment he felt. So they had returned to the issue of secrecy. She really didn't want to be seen with him. It was just as well, he told himself. He wanted nothing less than to compromise her, or to place her in the path of criticism from certain other female members of the Order.

"I agree," he told her. "I'd say the situation is delicate. I would hate to jeopardize your friends' opinions of you."

"Actually," Hermione said, wresting herself from her place against his chest, "I was more concerned for the opinions of your colleagues. Considering…well, considering the general consensus about your _previous relationships_, I'm afraid if someone like Mrs. Weasley—or Tonks—found out, you'll only be reprimanded more. They wouldn't understand."

Lupin had the fleeting sensation of being weightless for one giddy second. She wanted secrecy for _his_ sake? He braved a limp smile and said, "You are right, and you're gracious to think of it." He leaned close to her and brushed his lips to her brow. "We'll keep our secret then—for now," he whispered into her hair line. He felt the girl nuzzle into the hollow of his neck. "I had better go," he added before his baser instincts could lead him to suggest anything wanton.

"Yes, I think that's a wise idea," she said somewhat vacantly against his throat. Lupin forced himself to part from her and then crept back downstairs to his own room. He lay awake atop the sheets for a while, thinking wondrously of the stubborn and compassionate girl sleeping somewhere above him. He still had not assimilated the possibility that someone so full of vivacity and wisdom would ever put her reputation on the line for his sake, or agree not to speak a word on it for fear of his own tenuous reputation. Lupin was convinced she did not fully understand the implications of being pursued by a penniless werewolf. Time would likely show Hermione the error, if a certain Weasley didn't fly to the task first. If Lupin understood correctly, Molly had already been making her presence irksomely known for Hermione.

The next day showed little improvement, now that Lupin took it upon himself to observe. Molly capitalized on her daughter's inability to use magic away from school, as well as her friendship with Hermione, to ensure the girls had no spare time to seek out other companions. She assigned Ginny absurd chores that bore little relevance to the cleanliness of the house and the well-being of its inhabitants. Her meddling, while invisible to Ginny and perhaps unintentional to Hermione's perception, was more than Lupin could bear. The girl's words from the previous night rang clearly in the back of his mind; he would not give into Molly's demands. She had only made her intentions to keep Lupin from Hermione plainer through this underhanded strategy. Now even yesterday's short and pointed suggestions that Lupin "keep out of the coop" seemed mild. Molly would not stop at suggesting—she would forcibly separate the two by any means. He would not desist. Hermione had made it clear the previous night that she wanted to go forward with whatever was forming between them. Despite his misgivings on how long the dream would last, he should have felt no guilt pursuing it. Molly was wrong; Lupin was not just a mangy wolf loose in the henhouse. He was the object of Hermione Granger's affection. He was invincible.

Lupin wanted to be near Hermione; so help him, he'd find a way to do just that.

He followed the girls into virtually every room in which they occupied themselves, trying at the same time to appear invested in other business. The girls toiled in the living room, attending to curtains that for some reason required dusting. Nearby, Lupin subjected himself to an anger-charged and largely one-sided conversation with Ron about why Snape assuming role of Hogwarts headmaster signaled the end of the civilized world. Lupin didn't particularly care to talk about his former schoolmate these days and so he felt singular gratitude to Ginny for strong-arming her brother into helping. He busied himself briefly in another part of the house but kept up pursuit shortly thereafter when the girls moved into the library. Lupin heard them coming in from the living room and grabbed a book at random from the shelf before throwing himself into a deep-backed chair. He flipped open the tome—written in an archaic mix of German and Dwarfish—just as Ginny and Hermione entered the library

He learned from their comments to one another that now the chore was to remove the many wall hangings and shake them out in the yard. Lupin had to remind himself not to scoff where he sat with his nose to the page he had not turned in over ten minutes. The tapestries were fine; Molly was, as Muggles put it, grasping at straws. Lupin would no longer stand for it. He'd made the decision to act just as the girls encountered obvious difficulty taking down a particularly large and ugly tapestry from the pegs that held it aloft. The obstacle proved the perfect excuse for Lupin to rush valiantly to their aid despite Ginny's urging that he not trouble himself. He thought he saw Hermione smile coyly at him as he easily removed the hideous tapestry, which depicted rather brutal hunting habits of trolls.

When the walls had been stripped bare, Lupin helped the girls haul large stacks of hangings out through the back door and into to the small yard. He saw Hermione glance with mild interest at the half-constructed wooden shanty toward one corner of the yard and decided to keep the girls close to the house while they were out there. He shook out many of the tapestries without being prompted. Several of the larger hangings—including the ghastly portrayal of trollish life—required the help of all three to be properly beaten and shaken free of the feeble clouds of dust that rose from them. They carried the tapestries back to the library and carefully hung them up in their respective places.

Molly was already in the dining room setting out sandwiches for lunch when she raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the appearance of Lupin alongside Hermione and Ginny. She said nothing, perhaps satisfied that Ron and Harry, who had arrived for lunch sometime before, immediately whisked the girls away toward their end of the table. Molly could not be ever-present, however, and soon after lunch he returned to his quarry and gave convenient excuses as to why he should be in the den just as Hermione and Ginny were giving it a good sweeping down. Almost at once, Lupin enlisted himself to help again, citing an honorable obligation to assist the fairer—and weaker—of the sexes. Ginny laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm; Lupin was surprised to recognize something mildly flirtatious in the gesture. Hermione seemed to take no offense, as she laughed along with the joke. Together, they exhausted Molly's list before long and then retreated to solitude in the dining room and three well-deserved cups of piping hot tea that Hermione summoned to the tabletop.

Moments into their afternoon tea, Molly appeared from the living room and headed toward the kitchen, probably to get an early start on dinner. She froze with wide eyes, however, when she spotted the company. A muscle convulsed high in her cheek and she began to turn violently pink where she stood.

"Well, let's have it, Mum," Ginny said bravely. "What's the matter?"

"Shouldn't—you—be—doing—chores?" Molly demanded, biting off every word as though it left a sour taste in her mouth. She was most certainly not looking at her daughter, although Ginny remained the only one who'd received official housecleaning orders.

"We've already finished, Mum."

"So soon? I wonder if you were as thorough as you ought to have been. Perhaps if you went and had another look at those tapestries in the library…."

"—The tapestries are fine, Molly," Lupin interjected softly. "I took care of many of them myself."

The shade in her cheeks deepened to scarlet as she spluttered, "Y—you shouldn't have—"

"Oh, there's no need to thank me. It's only fair that we all pitch in with the cleaning. It wasn't particularly difficult work, as the tapestries were fairly clean to begin with. I found that a bit odd. Hardly any dust—wouldn't you say, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, er—not much at all," Hermione agreed with haste, looking startled by the blunt tactic he'd adopted toward the older woman.

Lupin nodded appreciatively at her answer and then returned his attention to Molly. He poured as much sincerity into his smile as possible, but set his jaw firmly to show her he would not back down. She was a sharp woman who'd spent several decades swatting defiance from the body language of seven children; she could not have misinterpreted Lupin's challenge.

Molly recovered from an initial surge of shock that had claimed her features. She let out an explosive breath (from the force of it, Lupin imagined she had packed it so tightly into her lungs as though hoping the pressure alone could make steam whistle from her ears). Then she muttered darkly, "I suppose it's all proper if you helped them with it, Remus."

Ginny, it seemed, remained oblivious to the other, less polite conversation going on alongside the audible one. She exclaimed suddenly, "As long as we're out of chores for the moment, let's get some fresh air and stretch our legs. Wouldn't you like a walk around the neighborhood, Hermione?"

"Oh, I don't know," she began with a minute flash of her warm, chocolate eyes toward Lupin's place at the table. He wondered what sort of calculations were occurring in that restless brain of hers—was she perhaps also deciding how best to go about the business of remaining near one another? Before he could puzzle it out, Ginny interjected:

"Lupin can be our bodyguard!"

It was a harmless flirt like the one before, but with a glance at her face Lupin almost thought he saw something a little less playful, and a bit more perceptive. Understanding flashed in Ginny's expression and was promptly replaced by a girlish smile. Lupin must have imagined it. He waited for Molly's outburst. The older Weasley was still standing listlessly within the entrance to the dining room. Her face was simmering crimson, but her rage never boiled over. Instead she clipped, "Enjoy yourselves," without the meanest hint of the joy that she'd wished them. Then she stormed from the room, into the kitchen.

That afternoon's walk was pleasant. They did not stray far from headquarters and simply took a few turns up and down the sidewalk lining Grimmauld Place. Soon Ginny suggested that Lupin be a true gentleman and escort a couple of ladies as they ought to be escorted. They walked arm-in-arm from that moment on. As much as Lupin enjoyed having a beautiful young woman on either side, Hermione's was the hand he covered with his own. Ginny either did not see or she was tactful enough not to mention it. Lupin was persuaded to believe the latter; Ginny even managed to swoop in again that night at dinner to help conceal their affections for one another.

Having spent several hours apart for the sake of appearances, Lupin was glad to see the girls appear in the crowded dining room. There were a couple of vacant chairs to his right, but he knew they were unlikely to remain so with the large crowd expected for dinner. The situation was sealed when Ginny strategically took the empty seat on Harry's left, leaving Hermione no option but the adjacent place, which happened to be the one beside Lupin. He made a mental note to thank Ginny sometime when he was certain that she knew of him and Hermione, and had not simply been making lucky guesses.

Although they were far from being alone and despite the presence of both Molly and Nymphadora, it was as though Lupin and Hermione ate together. He passed her a basket of warm rolls. Their elbows brushed in the business of acquiring utensils. The girl made sure to include him in the teens' conversation. In gratitude, his hand sought out her slender knee below the table. Hermione sat very still for a moment, perhaps afraid someone might look through the solid wood of the tabletop and discover them. Then Lupin felt her fingers—tiny and warm—slip over his own. The pair was silent for the remainder of the meal, until a meeting of the Order was called and Molly fussily shepherded the adolescents from the room.

Lupin's hand fell discreetly from Hermione's knee as she rose.


	10. Chapter 9

I hope you enjoy this, because it might have to last a couple of weeks. I simply have got to work on my other story or else I might as well throw it away altogether. I hope you like cliffhangers.

Just a hint; I've been alluding to Snape a bit in the last several posts. For you Severus fans: he'll be making an appearance in the next installment. Stay tuned.

_(coeptus)_

The house was unusually quiet as Hermione rose, showered, dressed and went to the dining room for breakfast. Ginny was already there, throwing down a quick bit of toast and fruit, and Ron was yawning beside her at the table. Mrs. Weasley stood nearby, urging her children to hurry. She seemed too flustered to cause Hermione any grief that morning, and rapidly explained she had plans to shop for Ginny's new school robes, which would replace a set that had been rendered too constricting by the girl's last few growth stages. Ron would tag along for the prospect of visiting Fred and George at their joke shop again. And Harry, Hermione was told, was nowhere to be found that morning.

"Apparently late coming home from one of his all-night coups into Muggle London," Mrs. Weasley fussed as she cleaned up after Ginny, who was still cramming toast into her mouth even as her plate disappeared. "We sent Moody after him; last I heard he was setting Harry down in The Leakey Cauldron for a nice heart-to-heart about why disappearing in the middle of the night is inexcusably foolish." She sighed explosively. "Kingsley warned Arthur and me that sort of thing's been happening more often, but it still doesn't prepare you for—anyway, that's not a pleasant thought. All is well, that's what's important. Alastor will be back with him any time now. Oh—quickly, Ginny, I want to get there before business picks up. You know how nervous I get around crowds in Diagon Alley."

Ginny washed down her last mouthful of breakfast with several hasty gulps from her cup. Ron yawned spectacularly beside his sister and said thickly, "You should come, too, 'Mione."

"No, Ron!" Ginny choked on her last draught. "I think Hermione's been tortured enough. Don't ask her to subject herself to a dull morning of fittings in stuffy robe shops."

Ron must have been just as baffled by the outburst as Hermione felt; his mouth worked soundlessly for a second before he stuttered, "I thought it would be fun…"

"No, you thought she could entertain you while you waited, bored out of your mind. After everything Hermione's helped me with over the last few days, I owe it to her to let her have a quiet morning to herself."

It seemed to appease Ron and caused Molly to shoot her daughter a curious glance as she finished cleaning up breakfast with smart flicks of her wand. Hermione was certain neither of them saw the subtle and almost undistinguishable flinch of the muscles at the corner of Ginny's eye. But she could not have winked; surely Hermione had imagined it.

"I _would_ sort of like to be alone for a while," she said truthfully.

"It won't be for long," Ginny told her a little too confidently. No one else showed signs of having heard the inflection.

Before another word could be spoken on the matter, Molly ushered her children from the dining room, leaving Hermione feeling slightly puzzled by Ginny's earnest attempts to keep her home. When they had gone, she helped herself to an orange, peeled and ate the fruit in silence as she read through a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ abandoned on the tabletop. Of particular interest on an inside page was an advance story on a Ministry-led ceremony to take place later that morning. The Minister of Magic was to meet with representatives from Hogwarts to officially recognize the newly-appointed headmaster. The writer of the article reported having the pleasure of personally conducting an interview through which Headmaster Severus Snape was quoted as feeling "thrilled" to have been given the privilege and responsibility. Hermione rolled her eyes in toward the ceiling; "thrilled" was not a word she could imagine her former Potions professor using without the severest of sarcasm. The disdain was, however, absent from his printed words.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" asked a dry voice from the doorway. Hermione glanced up sharply with surprise, although the voice was unmistakable. At her startled look, Professor Lupin explained, "I figured there were few page-two stories like the one about dear old Snape that could make you scowl."

"I wasn't scowling," the girl said defensively, and then thought to relax the tension that had built in her brow. He laughed softly, and Hermione gestured to the seat beside her.

"_The Prophet_ painted him as a regular hero, didn't it? I wonder what its faithful readers would think if they knew what Snape really is," he said as he took the chair next to Hermione and sat looking over her arm at the open periodical.

"I suppose there's no way we can make them know."

"I'm certain it will come out eventually when this is all over." He grinned at her. "In the meantime, we'll have to remain observers and wait for the proper time to act. We've always got Kingsley in Scrimgeour's office to keep an eye on things. That's where everyone's gone to this morning," he said with a nod toward the article. "Those of ours not directly involved in the Ministry aspect of the event will keep sentry near the proceedings."

"What does the Order think will happen?"

"Ideally—nothing. Don't worry about it. It's just a simple safety precaution. We don't actually expect Death Eaters to be there in full."

"And why aren't you there keeping the peace, Professor Lupin?"

"Someone had to hold down the fort," he said mildly as he leaned over her, reaching toward the orange Hermione had left half-peeled on the table in front of her. He came very near the girl as he leaned in and closed his fingers on a section of fruit. Hermione stiffened as he brushed her shoulder and side. He was close enough for her to smell the maleness and the warmth of him like sweat and soap. Having withdrawn to his own space again, the professor popped the orange wedge into his mouth and chewed lethargically for a moment before swallowing. He began playing with a piece of orange peel, twirling it between his fingertips on the tabletop. Keeping his eyes averted from hers, he admitted softly, "And anyway, I'm in no state at present to chase Death Eaters if they were to appear. I was elected to remain behind and rest up for my own mission."

Hermione understood, and her heart sank. "The full moon's less than a week away," she observed gently. "When do you have to leave?"

He gave up the orange peel, but seemed to have found his thumbs very interesting. "If I arrive by Sunday or Monday, I should have a few days to settle in with the others and give my usual excuses."

"Are you well enough to go? I've been meaning to ask about your injuries."

"I'm fine, thanks to your help," he grinned tiredly at her. "Just a little stiff; it's normal at this time of the month. Don't worry about me. I shouldn't be away for more than a week."

Hermione didn't want to think about being separated from him after the few precious days they'd spent together. They'd hardly had any time to themselves, and Hermione wanted him on his own, away from the others, apart from Ginny and out of Molly's sight. The girl obeyed her sudden impulse to jump up from the table and drag him also to his feet.

He glanced curiously at her hand in his. "So?" he inquired, even as she whisked him from the dining room.

"So everyone's out this morning. We're alone," she explained, leading him through the living room and toward the stairs at the front of the house.

"It won't stay that way for long," he interjected, sounding inexplicably panicked. "Alastor's due back with Harry at any minute."

"—Which is why we should get away quickly, before they return. I don't want to raise suspicions." She pulled him up the stairs, down the hall and through the last door on the left, which she shut and charmed behind her. As an added precaution, she flung a few muffling charms around the room so no one passing by would hear occupants' voices.

"What do you intend us to do?" he wondered as she finished casting spells at the walls and door.

"Afraid I might take advantage of you?" she teased, strangely satisfied to see the brief look of horror that came to his face. She tucked her wand back into her pocket and laughed, "I needed to make sure I could get you on your own before everyone comes home from the day's business and prevents us from so much as speaking a word to one another."

"Then you mean us—to talk?" he asked haltingly. "Hermione, this is the part I'm terrible at."

"Nonsense. You don't have to be eloquent; you just have to talk," she laughed, turning a small circle in his room and looking for any personal belonging or proof that he inhabited the space. "I could have sworn you at least had a trunk or something with you at school," she mused.

"Several," he agreed. "I've no need to keep more than one now; it's stored under the bed."

"But what about your possessions? Your books? Didn't you have an old gramophone of sorts? I always thought it odd and charming in an old-fashioned kind of way…."

"I, er, no longer needed many of those things," he explained with a delicate cough. "Since the Ministry began enforcing restrictions against hiring anyone under the category of 'Dark Creature,' it became necessary for me to sell much of what I owned."

She thought he might have been blushing. "Oh," she said. "Well, that's all right, as long as you kept what you needed."

"A few changes of clothing and an extra pair of shoes," he catalogued with an uncomfortable grin and a nod of his head toward a small dresser against the wall. "All that I own. Sirius was kind enough to allow me a place here. If it weren't for Harry's continued generosity, I would be quite homeless." Just as Hermione recognized the pity that had begun to twist her features, Professor Lupin glanced at the floor and sighed, "I'm sorry. I told you I'm awful at this."

Hermione braved a grin, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, noting with mild disappointment that he'd shaved that morning. She liked him better with whiskers; they helped to conceal the moustache. "Nevermind," she told him. "We'll talk about something else, although I do miss the gramophone. Some music would be nice."

"There's a Wizard's Wireless in the bottom dresser drawer," he informed her, the focus of his eyes a bit soft as he apparently recovered from her unbidden kiss.

"Perfect," she exclaimed happily, crossing the room to the place he had indicated and finding the unit just as he'd promised. Hermione set it up on the small bedside table where it crackled to life when she tapped her wand against it. As the girl began to tune it through Ministry-approved newscasts of goings-on in the Wizarding world (which Hermione knew were all rubbish) and programs full of keening love songs popular with younger witches (which did not suit Hermione's purposes at all), Professor Lupin sat on the edge of the neatly-made bed and watched her with interest.

"What are you looking for, Hermione?"

"A conversation piece."

Finally a pleasant orchestral suite issued from the unit. It sounded vaguely familiar to Hermione, but she couldn't place it. "There," she said, stepping back from the Wizard's Wireless and flashing him a wide smile.

"I didn't know you enjoyed Mozart."

Her eyes widened. "They play Muggle music on the Wireless?"

"This is from his opera, _The Magic Flute_. It's actually a recording of a famous performance in which every instrument was charmed to play itself flawlessly," he explained, bringing his legs up to rest on the bed and reclining back against the pillows and headboard. He crossed his ankles, wove his fingers together behind his head and remarked, "It's the most perfect rendition of the opera ever performed, one free of human error."

"You're charming when you lecture," Hermione laughed, lowering herself to sit on the edge of the bed beside him. She laid one hand to his chest and pressed lazy patterns into his shirt with her fingertips as she said, "You know, I saw _The Magic Flute_ with my parents years ago. I don't remember much beyond the irritation I felt toward Papageno, but I enjoyed the opera despite him. At least I respected Tamino and Pamina by the end. They faced trial and setback together and were no less in love when it was over than when they first saw one another." She laughed self-consciously and added, "I guess it's a bit unrealistic. Maybe that's sentimental of me; I don't know. I was just…so proud of them."

Professor Lupin's hazel eyes, looking slightly grayish in the soft light coming in through the window, took her in gravely as she spoke. When she had finished, he shook his head and murmured cryptically, "Hermione Jean Granger, where have you been?"

He'd said it like a true professor; tired, careworn and a bit exasperated. Hermione realized she'd been critiquing an opera she'd seen once in her life. Perhaps her interpretation of the classic had somehow offended him. "I suppose I turned know-it-all again…" she trailed off apologetically.

"I meant nothing of the sort," he said firmly. "You've not seemed yourself in a while. It's a relief to see your passion for culture and history return. You're a great deal wiser than you give yourself credit. You have an old soul; it's endearing. Your intellect only makes you more attractive." Hermione's breath seized up in her lungs at the compliment. She felt blood rush to her cheeks and her face grew hot. Professor Lupin gave a low chuckle and said, "Do not blush so to be admired, my dear."

"And…who wrote that one?" she wondered softly.

"Edmund Waller. In his best-known poem, the narrator addresses a rose meant for his beloved. He instructs it to go and show the girl by example that something so beautiful ought to be admired." The professor paused, unlacing a hand from behind his head and reaching forward to tuck a few errant locks of her hair behind her ear. His fingers remained buried in the curls near her jaw as he recited, "'Small is the worth of beauty from the light retired: bid her come fourth, suffer herself to be desired and not blush so to be admired. Then die—that she the common fate of all things rare may read in thee; how small a part of time they share that are so wondrous sweet and fair.'" He pronounced the last words with a delicate emphasis as his fingers roved deeper into the curls of her hair and tentatively brushed her scalp.

Hermione shivered involuntarily and blinked, slowly regaining use of her faculties after the spell he'd placed briefly upon her through the meter. The orchestra continued to issue throughout the room as the girl leaned over him, raising herself slightly so she could kiss him on the mouth. She felt Professor Lupin's hand stray to her waist, laying the lightest of pressure there as though he wanted to guide her toward himself. By then, the girl was kneeling on the edge of the bed and such little energy was required to shift her weight and swing one leg over him that Hermione didn't quite realize she had done it until she was straddling his thighs.

The girl slid her hands down his chest and brought them to rest on his abdomen as she broke off the kiss. When she sat back, she noticed his expression had become almost fearful. His eyes were wide and he did not appear to be breathing, although Hermione felt his other hand had also settle on her hip. She remembered a stiffness he had complained of and thought vaguely of the way she was sitting on his upper legs. "I'm sorry," she murmured, "am I hurting you?"

"—Far from it."

Hermione smiled and leaned in toward him again, this time pulling herself forward along his thighs. She thought it strange that the closer she drew to him, the heavier his hands became on her hips. She was nearly in his lap. His frame was rigid beneath her. Almost before her mouth brushed against his, Hermione felt the bulge press her inner thigh through their clothing. Professor Lupin inhaled sharply as her weight settled on his erection.

"Oh," she uttered softly, glancing down at his lap and then into his tormented expression. "I see I've put you in a compromising situation," she teased with a suggestive lift of her brow. He grimaced and Hermione could no longer torture the good man. She chuckled and eased off of his lap somewhat, though she did not dismount his thighs and sat close enough to keep him uncomfortable. Hermione enjoyed making him squirm a bit, but even more she enjoyed with dark fascination the response her presence had fostered so quickly in his body. Deciding to draw out his discomfort as long as possible, she purred, "I want to learn more, professor. Teach me something else."

"T—Teach you?" he forced through his teeth.

Hermione laughed long enough to make her joke clear, but not loud enough to make it at his expense. "Tell me about werewolves," she said with a smile, dropping the pretense altogether.

"_Werewolves_," he spluttered.

"We _are_ here to talk," she reminded him. "Anyway, there's only so much about werewolves that I can read in a book. It's different to ask someone I trust, someone who's a werewolf himself."

Professor Lupin seemed to have a difficult time of swallowing just then. The pressure of his fingers against her hips eased slightly, and he asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Little things—the kinds of things that seem impossible to look up or cross reference. Are you really allergic to silver?"

"Have you ever seen me eat with my hands at the table?" he countered with a boyish grin.

"No, of course it would be silly of me to think that were true." She considered. "Are you the natural enemies of vampires?"

He actually laughed as he replied, "That's a Hollywood creation. Neither can we change at will from man to beast." His hands, no longer tense, had slipped down the crest of her hips and rested on the tops of her thighs.

"Well, of course that one's absurd," she agreed, relieved to see him growing more at ease with their present arrangement. "Your transformations coincide with the lunar cycle. You can't do anything about the time at which you transform or the duration of your change."

"Well-said." His thumbs stroked her legs through blue jean material that Hermione suddenly found entirely too thick. The girl pressed her fingers into his firm abdomen through the shirt.

She surprised herself as she asked, "Have you ever killed anyone, professor?"

He surprised her perhaps more by asking calmly, "As a werewolf?"

"…Yes, as a werewolf." She was disturbed to consider the alternative.

"No. The instinct is to bite, not to kill."

"Have you ever bitten anyone, then?"

"Yes," was his simple answer. He did not seem affected by this admittance, and he continued without as much as a beat, "A Muggle. He was an old man when I bit him. I was just a boy; it was one of my first transformations and I still had a lot to learn about restraining myself so that I wouldn't hurt anyone. I was mortified when I woke the next morning, so I sought him out where I remembered attacking him. I tried to help. He survived the bite, which would have surprised me if I'd known more about the nature of werewolf wounds and their effects on the weak. The old man sort of relied on me in the weeks afterward, as he knew nothing of the lycanthropy that afflicted him. The transformations, however, were devastating. He didn't survive past his second full moon."

"I'm sorry."

"He didn't blame me, not at least in those times I went to visit him in St. Mungo's. Things have changed a lot for me since then. I'm much more mindful about secluding myself for the transformations, even when I'm away on missions. That's not to say I don't make mistakes. If I let myself get too comfortable, nights like the one at Hogwarts can happen. It's a terrible risk to take with people's lives," he sighed.

Hermione slid her hands up toward his chest and leaned against his form, smiling vaguely but otherwise ignoring the insistent pressure of his erection on her lower belly. Professor Lupin shifted awkwardly for a moment as the girl brought her cheek to rest on his chest. When he was still again, she closed her eyes and sighed into his shirt, "You don't take any risks. You're the most careful person I know."

He didn't answer. Instead, he pressed his palms into her back, holding the girl against himself. He rubbed her back through the shirt while a mournful tenor joined the orchestra's exclamation over the Wireless. Hermione was still tired from yesterday's chores and as sleep-deprived as ever. She suddenly found a comfortable warmth and strength in Professor Lupin's arms that she hadn't felt in a long time, not since she was a child in a carefree world far from such things as magic and war. Her senses were saturated with the professor's scent and touch as she rose and fell on his chest. Soon Hermione's thoughts grew warm and silly in that stretch of cognitive nonsense before dreams. She was falling headfirst on every one of his exhalations and catching herself every time his chest expanded again. She was freefalling with his arms in place of a parachute. She had snuck into the den of a hibernating bear and had crawled atop his warm and powerful chest as he slept, broad and soap-smelling beneath her. Then she was no longer in the den, but back at Hogwarts, and somewhere a flute was playing in a distant corridor. She was searching for a wolf playing the flute, but a feather-clad baritone wearing a trapper's cage kept interrupting.

By the time Professor Lupin nudged her awake, a somber piano had replaced the opera from before. Hermione's mouth had sealed itself in sleep; she lazily smacked her lips, yawned and asked how long she had been asleep. An hour had passed, she learned, and someone had returned to Grimmauld Place moments ago—Alastor and Harry, from the sounds of the voices in the narrow foyer downstairs. She apologized for the unconscious drooling she left on his shirt and excused herself, saying she might as well return to her room and appear as though she'd been napping—alone, she added with a smile. He bade her good afternoon. She kissed him appreciatively on the cheek and apparated to her quarters, and they weren't remotely alone again until the next day, the afternoon of the Weird Sisters concert in Diagon Alley.

Hermione had already changed into her white sundress with the pink flowers, as well as her red quarter-length jacket and Mary Jane slip-ons. Her lips were glossed, her hair was as tame as it would consent to be and the girl saw no need of further coiffing. The wait for Ginny to perfect her look would last a while yet. Harry and Ron were standing by in the living room with Kingsley and Tonks while the girls prepared. Hermione was just descending the stairs onto the second level of the house when she spied Professor Lupin coming up the other staircase. She pulled him aside from the hallway and into his room, where she kissed him feverishly and begged him to reconsider going with the group.

"Wizard rock isn't exactly my forte," he told her. "It'd be suspicious if I decided to come along."

"I suppose that's true."

"You'll have a better time without me. And you'll have—well, Kingsley will be there keep you safe. Just see to it that Myron Wagtail doesn't woo you into becoming a groupie."

"I'll try to resist his heavenly vocals and come home to you, but I can't make any promises." She embraced him quickly and said, "I'll enjoy the evening for both of us, professor dearest." Then she hurried from his room and joined the others downstairs. When Ginny was finally fit to be seen, they all parted from Mrs. Weasley's fussing goodbyes, went out onto the porch and apparated with caution to the entrance of The Leakey Cauldron. Kingsley led the group and Tonks brought up the rear as they crossed the pub and passed through the portal into the open lane that was Diagon Alley, packed with crowds of bystanders. An elevated stage set up near Gringott's seemed to be the focus of interest, but the band's players were nowhere yet in sight.

As Hermione elbowed her way past witches not much older than she and wizards already sloppy with butterbeer, she realized how very misled they all had been to fear some sort of attack on Harry's behalf. No one took any notice of him in this murmuring mass of bodies. At last Kingsley had found a suitable gap in the crowd for their group to stand in, and they all quickly edged their way toward it. They had a fair view of the stage from that distance, and within a few minutes the members of The Weird Sisters apparated onstage to the accompanying roar from the crowd. They hitched immediately into their first song of the night—one of the more popular ones Hermione had often heard over the Wireless—and the mass of fans howled approval. The atmosphere was fun, though a bit overwhelming, and at first Hermione enjoyed herself.

After another set of songs had passed, the volume and the impenetrable mass of the crowd began to irritate her. Suddenly the popular lyrics seemed trite; soon she began to long for no music less pure than a classic opera heard in a quiet room from the comfort of a strong pair of arms. Matters were only made worse when Harry and Ginny, who had been standing suspiciously close all evening, no longer felt the need to conceal affectionate touches on the arm or waist. Their friendly pecks between songs became lingering kisses. They weren't an offensive sight to Hermione, but they made her miss being near Professor Lupin.

Ron must have seen her looking wistfully at their display; she noticed him in the corner of her eye as he tried to wedge himself closer to her. Wanting to avoid that confrontation, Hermione ducked around Tonks' side while she concocted an excuse to leave behind Ron, who was still struggling through the mass toward her.

"I have to visit the loo!" she cried over the music and the crowd.

Tonks' brows were arched high in bewilderment as she shouted, "Who will be using the floo?"

"The _loo_," Hermione yelled beside her ear.

"Oh, all right." She turned back toward the stage and Hermione for some reason couldn't stop looking at her long enough to excuse herself. This was the first time she'd spoken with Tonks since learning of her past with Professor Lupin. Hermione sympathized with her friend and wanted nothing less than to cause her more pain on the issue, but she couldn't help wondering what Tonks would do if she discovered that Hermione had begun seeing Remus Lupin.

"You okay, 'Mione?"

"Yeah," Hermione hollered, shaking herself. "Yes, I'm okay, Tonks. I'll be back in a moment."

She slipped away with difficulty and decided to head toward The Leakey Cauldron to complete the illusion. Perhaps she could get in from all the noise for a few minutes and freshen up in the public restroom there. She jostled her way toward the pub and found it quite empty within, despite the raucous crowds outside. Not even Tom the barman kept his post behind the counter, which Hermione found odd. She helped herself to the small back restroom, splashing her face with cool water and drying off on a towel. She ran her fingers through her curls, trying to tame some of the wildness that had crept into it while jostling around the crowd. She took one last critical look at her reflection and sighed, thinking of Ronald edging hopefully toward her moments ago. It was going to be an interesting conversation that developed when she finally dealt with _that_ situation.

Hermione tugged down the hem of her red summer sweater, smoothed the front of her sundress and made for the exit. She threw open the restroom door on the immobile frame of a large, bald wizard whose hand collided with the heavy wood.

"It's time to go," he told her simply.

Thinking she hadn't heard him correctly through the buzzing that lingered in hear ears from the decibel outside, Hermione murmured, "Oh, excuse me," and tried to tiptoe past the brute.

He caught her roughly under the arm in a crushing grip and cooed, "Not that way, love."

Hermione's heart hammered against her ribcage. Vainly she thought of her party, a safe island in the sea of people outside the walls of the pub that vibrated even now with the reverberations of live Wizard rock. "Help!" she shrieked to anyone within earshot in the same instant that her hand flew to her wand, tucked helplessly within the small purse on her arm.

The stranger's hands were faster. One of them clapped firmly over her mouth and the other closed on hers and twisted her hand to the wrist. Hermione was disarmed with a muffled cry of pain. Suddenly the brute's crushing grip had gone about her torso. He looked down into her face with dark and merciless eyes and observed, "It's a shame you're not the little Weasley wench—Potter's girl. I suppose his Mudblood friend will have to do…."

Hermione attempted to wrestle free but succeeded only in cinching the arms tighter around her body. The man was squeezing her airway shut. As every wandless and nonverbal spell seemed to slip through her mental grasp, Hermione resisted with any mundane force she could imagine. She squirmed, she kneed and kicked and finally—futilely—spat in the stranger's face. He hardly seemed upset by her ministration. In fact, the brute actually smiled with her spittle glistening on his cheek and said, "We can't have you fighting the whole way, now can we, little—?"

The last words had the air of being decidedly unpleasant although they never quite reached Hermione through the blinding pain she encountered as the man planted a firm and withering blow in her stomach. Her ears buzzed anew, tears sprang to her eyes and stars danced in her vision.

Then the girl collapsed into waiting arms, her senses dead to the world.


	11. Chapter 10

Whoa. Another long chapter. Oh, but I do love Lupin's point-of-view.

I have to thank Marble Meadow for her fantastic beta-ing. She's a real trooper, as she's been waiting several posts longer than everyone else to find out what happens. I hope y'all enjoy.

_(coeptus)_

He heard Ginny first.

Even from within his room, Lupin recognized the heightened emotion in the girl's voice as she exploded in the front door downstairs. He set aside the book he'd been reading and sighed. There was no use in trying to relax now. He'd expected the kids to return excited from the crowd and fanfare of the concert, but he didn't think he could stand Ginny's present hysteria. Lupin retrieved his wand from the bedside table and was halfway through the act of throwing around a few muffling charms when he thought distractedly of the hour and the sunshine still streaming in through his window. It was far too early for the concert to have concluded….

Suddenly he realized it was not excitement he heard in Ginny's sobbing.

It was terror.

Lupin bolted through his bedroom door, wand in hand, just as Molly's voice shrieked, "Arthur!" in a panic to match her daughter's. He took the stairs two at a time and arrived on the landing in the same moment that Arthur burst in from the living room with Alastor limping stiffly behind him. Ginny was still wailing in the arms of her mother, and nearby Harry wore a look of studied calm like the one James had occasionally assumed when too deeply furious to properly express himself. Ron was very pale. Nymphadora was closing the front door behind the party, but Lupin's eyes did not stay long enough on her to gauge her expression. Kingsley was not among the group. And where was…

"Hermione!" the youngest Weasley sobbed into Molly's shoulder. "She's gone!"

There was a sickly, swooping sensation in his stomach and Lupin demanded, "What happened?" His voice cracked more sharply than he'd intended.

"She was taken," Harry supplied, and the short, clipping inflections of his tone demonstrated how very like his father he'd become. "She was with us one moment and then was gone."

"The girl couldn't have simply disappeared," Alastor growled, hobbling forward. "What's missing from the story?"

Harry tuned to look expectantly at the last member of the party with her hand still limp upon the doorknob. His example was followed by everyone who wasn't sobbing and soon all but Ginny were staring at Nymphadora. She met their gazes with wide eyes and the tormented expression of a hare caught in a wire that knew it was about to be strangled to death.

"Tonks, dearest," Molly coaxed gently, though her voice was strained, "just tell us what happened."

"I—she said she had to use the loo," the pink-haired witch replied helplessly. "She said she'd be back in a minute…"

"You let her go alone," Arthur said tonelessly.

A shocked silence fell over the group for a brief moment as this information was absorbed. Even Ginny's weeping went quiet. Then Lupin exploded: "God damn it, Nymphadora! Can you do anything right?"

At his rebuke, her expression fell from panic to despair almost instantly. The pink shade of her hair flashed shockingly bright, then plummeted into a deep, scandalized fuchsia before settling into a dingy mud-brown.

Molly shoved her listless daughter into Arthur's arms and rushed to Nymphadora's side. "Never mind, my girl—no one's blaming you," she fussed, taking hold of the younger witch's shoulders. Then she shot Lupin a nasty look and hissed, "How dare you, Remus!"

Arthur ignored Lupin's and Molly's electrified glares at one another and mumbled, "How could this have happened?"

"There's no use pointing fingers about it now," Alastor said. "We need an account of what happened, and then we need to act. First of all—Arthur, get to Hogsmeade. Our contact in The Hog's Head can pass information along to Minerva. The rest of the Order needs to know about this."

Arthur obediently disentangled himself from his daughter and marched out the front door. "Be careful!" Molly pleaded just as her husband disapparated on the step. She shut the door behind him and then took hold of Nymphadora's elbow, saying, "Come, dearest. We'll sit you down and talk some more. Ginny—you, too." She led the distraught procession into the living room.

Lupin caught up at Alastor's shoulder as the other man was demanding of Nymphadora, "When did you notice the girl was gone?"

"Twenty minutes ago," she said weakly as she sank down into a chair, looking dazed. "She stepped away I think…maybe four or five songs before. It's been around forty minutes in all."

Lupin's nails dug into the palm of his wand-free hand with the effort he was exerting not to throw curses at her. In his anger, he wanted to make something _bleed_ for the crime of abducting Hermione—if abduction was indeed the scenario they now faced.

"Kingsley stayed," Nymphadora murmured. "You know, in case…."

Lupin thought of a hundred endings to that sentence: in case Hermione happened to wander back to her party an hour later asking what she'd missed, in case some Death Eater conveniently walked past dragging a gagged and bound young woman, in case someone at the concert discovered her dead—

Lupin ended the train of thought out of necessity and said, "We have to go after her. Now."

"If the girl was taken," Alastor said sharply, "the chance is unlikely she'll still be anywhere in Diagon Alley. Don't let your personal feelings complicate this, Remus."

Lupin recognized the open-endedness of that comment and the invitation it created for someone like Nymphadora or Harry to infer what they wished. He was surprised to realize he didn't care who found him out just then.

"I won't stand by while one of our own is in danger. I'll scout the trail myself if I have to!"

"I'm going with you," Harry said firmly.

"You'll do no such thing," Alastor barked. "This is exactly the situation Voldemort and his Death Eaters would use to bring you into the open. You'll stay put, Harry. As for the rest of us," — he fixed Lupin with his magical eye— "we need to convene with the Order before making any rash decisions."

Molly gave an affirmative nod of her head, Ginny sank onto the couch by the window and Harry's clenched jaw began to turn white. As Mad-Eye went on instructing Molly to alert more members of the Order, Lupin realized how absurd it was that they should stand around having a conversation when every precious second that ticked by was a second wasted. He tried to imagine where Hermione might be at that moment—whether she was hurt or giving her captor hell—and then felt disgusted with himself for so much as thinking of her in harm without acting. There was no reason Lupin should have a conversation when she was possibly hurt somewhere. There was no reason anyone in the world should have something as mundane as a _conversation_, now that Hermione Granger was missing.

"_Accio cloak_," he murmured without thinking.

"—What did you say?" Alastor demanded, rounding on him briefly. The electric blue orb was stationary in its socket.

"Nothing," Lupin said a bit louder, not in an effort to be deceptive, but only because it was too late now to explain himself. Mad-Eye seemed satisfied with the answer, and an instant after he turned his back, Lupin strode from the room. He counted four steps before anyone in the living room could react. He was at the front door, and his patched traveling robe—which had flown down the stairs—threw itself obediently into his hand just as Molly's shocked cry caught up with his departure.

Alastor roared, "Remus, get back here!" but Lupin was already on the porch. He threw his arms into his cloak and shrugged into the shoulders even as he turned in place. The world contracted around him and then dilated violently into a shadowy side street off of Knockturn Alley. He shoved his wand into the deep outer pocket of the robe and stepped into the sparse vein of traffic as though he belonged there.

How could he have explained the need for his cloak to Alastor? The truth was that Lupin intended to become invisible when he reached Diagon Alley, and nothing in the world could make one as unremarkable in a crowd as a set of ordinary, gray traveling robes.

He made his way through the growing throng of traffic toward Diagon Alley and eventually emerged into the swarm and clamor of the concert. The sun had already plunged below the hedge of tall buildings, casting the square in bluish shadows. Fans and performers alike were still shouting their enthusiasm. Lupin knew that Kingsley was somewhere in that mass of people, and he would have recovered Hermione by now if the answer were as simple as standing in place.

Lupin favored a more progressive tactic. As he skirted the crowd, keeping to the closed storefronts, his sharp ears filtered the mess of noises for anything telling. There was an incessant keening of instruments, lyrics and cheers. Those were easy to listen through. The babbling undercurrent of private conversations proved more difficult to separate. Lupin tried to pick out the words that a harsh, male voice punctuated over the general murmur, but the bass of the music had already begun to desensitize his eardrums.

Probably nothing relevant there, anyway, he thought.

He expanded his search outward to the surrounding buildings. Most businesses were closed, their owners having likely joined the throng. Gringott's was operational, of course, but a high-security bank would be a conspicuous setting for abduction. That left The Leakey Cauldron. Assuming Hermione had actually gone in search of a restroom—and Lupin had no reason to suspect otherwise—the pub was a promising suspect.

Lupin found Tom manning the bar. He shouted over an imagined ringing in his ears a yarn about a niece with bushy, honey-colored curls of hair and dark brown eyes who might have passed this way. Tom apologized; he hadn't seen anyone like that, but he'd just taken over for the night shift.

"Nate's already gone," Tom said when Lupin wondered if the day shift worker would have seen her. "I sent the bloke home early; he didn't look all that well. Wasn't even manning the front when I showed up—sometimes I don't know why I keep him around…."

Not caring for idle chat at the moment, Lupin hastily thanked Tom and excused himself to the small restroom, which he found just as orderly as he'd expected. There was no evidence of a struggle, no flashing sign telling him Hermione had even been there. Perhaps she had not come this far, he thought. As Lupin turned to leave the bathroom, his eyes passed over a sliver of pale wood wedged between the trim and the floor.

It was a wand.

All the strength went out of his knees and Lupin was kneeling before he realized he'd begun to move. His numb fingers closed on the handle carved in delicate vines and leaves. He slid the wand from under the trim and gently turned it over in his hand. It was intact to the softly rounded tip. He withdrew his own wand from his pocket, swallowed a knot that had risen into his throat, and murmured, "_Prior Incantato_." An echo of the wand's last act of magic appeared in the air before Lupin and then flickered out; the shadowy image of a steaming cup of tea mocked a moment days ago when they had sat together at the dining room table.

The echo was proof.

Hermione hadn't even defended herself.

It was as if a crushing weight settled in his chest, and Lupin found it difficult to breathe for a moment. Then he slipped the precious sliver of wood into an inside pocket of his robe, stood with effort from the floor and strode from The Leakey Cauldron.

_(intercapedo)_

There was a man whom Lupin knew of through his work for the Order—a disreputable, paunchy little man who worked for the Ministry as a mid-rank security officer. Seven other guards worked the Diagon Alley beat under his authority, and a girl going missing between all eight of them seemed highly suspicious. Lupin thought it prudent at that point to pay this man a visit, and he would have felt wrong calling upon a perfect stranger without some kind of offering.

Quality potions came from honest—and prominent—places of business, and Lupin couldn't afford to be seen in such places until this was over. He bought cheap Veritaserum from a vendor in Knockturn Alley who swore it wasn't watered down. Then he used all of it on the small, paunchy man whom he found in the corner of a shadowy pub. Lupin pretended to be intoxicated; he stumbled to the bar, slurred a couple of choice curses about _kids and their damned rock music_ and loudly invited the little man to share a pint or two. The other man didn't realize his tankard held a bit more than butterbeer until his third round when he began spouting intimate secrets. The man's eyes were bugging in alarm by the time his lips stumbled over a confession of a rather defaming business deal he'd made with a back-alley witch the previous night.

Lupin quickly and wordlessly cast a subtle muffling charm around them, combined with a mild aversion spell to keep away unwanted listeners. Then he dropped the pretense and sobered immediately. It wasn't difficult; he had been vanishing the brew from his tankards all along instead of drinking it. Lupin needed a clear head.

The low-grade Veritaserum would not last long. Time was running out for him in a handful of ways, and he could not bother with tactfulness just then. "Listen to me, friend," he told the man. "Something very valuable was taken from Diagon Alley tonight. You are going to help me recover it. Tell me what sort of _supplementary_ instructions you received about security measures for the evening."

The man swallowed once. "I was paid to keep my men away from The Leakey Cauldron during the Weird Sisters concert," he blurted. "He would kill me if I showed within a block of the place."

"Who was it that bought your services?"

"A Death Eater. A tall fellow with a drawl. I never saw his face. He paid me in Galleons, and I asked if there was any other way I could help relieve him of his gold. He refused, said it would be an inside job by a Squib who valued his gold a lot more than I would."

The way it had spilled from his mouth informed Lupin he was telling the truth.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said quietly after a moment. He gestured obscurely with his wand, altering much of the man's memory of their conversation. Then he took one last draft of butterbeer—actually swallowing it this time—got to his feet and left the dumpy little man to blink in his daze. It was past midnight when Lupin left the pub and stalked out from the side street back into Knockturn Alley.

He spent a long and trying night drifting among other shady pockets of magical London which were steeped in Dark Arts. Lupin discovered nothing useful but kept away from Tom on the night shift and any suspicion that would have arisen by returning to The Leakey Cauldron so late after the concert. He thought he saw Arthur Weasley once, walking in the opposite direction down a wide avenue in an inner London Borough near King's Cross station. Lupin ducked into a shadowy alcove between two narrow, brick buildings and waited for him to pass.

He found little evidence the following day to suggest the bartender called Nathan was overtly evil. After a while of slipping unheeded between regulars, Lupin deduced that the man was expectedly unpleasant for a barkeeper, generally disliked, and also a Squib. It was common understanding and even a bit of a joke that Nate could not produce a spell to save his life.

Lupin found that very interesting information, indeed.

He occupied a bench in one dim corner of The Leakey Cauldron and spent most of the second day there. He knew his unkempt appearance and the patched condition of his clothing lent to the illusion of someone often homeless and even more frequently drunk. He did not buy much drink that day, partly because he felt no desire for butterbeer and his meager funds were quickly running out, but more importantly because Lupin did not wish to give Nate the opportunity to become familiar with his face.

When the shift finally changed that evening, Lupin allowed the large man a bit of a start and then rose from his bench and pursued Nate's shaved head out the door into the London streets. He eventually followed his prey into a shabby apartment building and threw open Nate's door just before it clicked shut. Lupin's wand was out and the tip pressed firmly into the ridge of the large man's spinal column. Nate had not even switched on a light yet.

No matter.

His wand hand never strayed from where it held the spell in place as Lupin closed the door softly behind him. The click of the bolt striking the plate was deafening to Lupin as he strained to pick up signs that other occupants of the building had heard or suspected anything amiss. He stepped up very close behind Nate and leaned in toward his ear.

"I know you're a Squib and incapable of defending yourself by magical means, so I'll make this brief and then release you," Lupin said quickly and under his breath. "I've cast a binding spell on you, as I'm sure you've noticed. It's a little something of my own design. You may speak, but not with excessive force. If you raise your voice at all, a nasty property of the spell activates, atrophying your vocal folds. You would find it difficult to speak at all after that, and I would prefer we avoided this unhappy alternative. I don't like you, Nathan, and therefore I would feel no obligation to linger and reverse the damage."

Lupin knew the bluff was indistinguishable in his tone. It was a trait he had cultivated with care over many years. He depended on fear alone to keep the man from attempting to wake the building.

"Do we understand one another?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Nate said just as quietly, though his voice trembled.

"Very good. I am in possession of some disturbing knowledge. I know that you recently accepted gold as payment for taking something of great value from Diagon Alley during last night's concert—"

"—I've got an alibi," Nate choked. "I was working the whole time."

"I know with certainty that's a lie," Lupin said, twisting the tip of his wand against the man's spine and willing a mild Cruciatus curse.

Nate shook with rasping sobs that he impressively kept under the decibel of normal speech.

"I spoke with Tom myself," Lupin continued, "and he said you went home ill before the end of the concert. He also mentioned that you had stepped away when he came to relieve you last night. Let's try it again, without perjury. You were paid to steal something quite valuable, but this was something you did not even have to leave your workplace to steal. This was something that walked right into your hands. Am I getting warmer?"

"I was paid…to deliver…something. That's all."

"You aren't being very helpful, Nate. This thing you stole is very precious to me. I intend to be reunited with it." He paused to let the emphasis sink in. Then he asked, "Where is the girl?"

"I don't know."

Lupin punctuated the next, harsher Cruciatus wave with a smart jab of his wand into the man's vertebrae.

The large man whimpered. "I swear, mate," he gasped when the curse eased off. "I swear I don't know where she is. I didn't hurt her or anything like that."

"Enlighten me on what part you actually did play in this event."

Nate gulped noisily, probably fearing more pain. "I startled her, is all," he said. "Knocked her wand away—winded her, you know, so she'd go quietly. Bagged her up and carried her to the drop point."

"That's it?" Even Lupin was surprised by the dispassion in his voice despite the rage that flared within him at the image of this man handling Hermione Granger unkindly.

"He offered to pay me gold—the Death Eater—half in advance and the other half when it was done," Nate said quickly. "It was supposed to be Potter's lady friend, the little redhead. In the end, I couldn't pick her off the crowd, and when the other one wandered back alone—well, I knew it was the last chance I'd have. Didn't get all the gold I was promised, but that's because I brought him the wrong one. He could have killed me. I was lucky."

"That's a strange word to describe it," Lupin said dryly. "Now tell me about this drop point. Where was it you took the girl?"

He listened intently as Nate told him of the patched lane in the outskirts of a London Borough bordering Kent. It was an old, wooded neighborhood situated outside the heavier-populated area of Bromley. Nate told him how he'd had to go there on foot in the dead of the night, taking the back roads to avoid suspicion. Lupin would take a more direct route. He thanked Nate stiffly, silently longing for the excuse to hurt the man some more. Then he apparated directly out of the darkened apartment and into Bromley, aware that his spell had released Nate as soon as Lupin had gone.

He was somewhat familiar with the area and did not search long for the road he needed. It was a pitted, grassy, forgotten lane that broke away from a side street and wandered away behind a small church. It led him through a grove of trees toward another stone structure, some sort of pub. After several minutes of following the lane, Lupin drew up short and sighed.

The large, shaved Sickle of the moon shone overhead, even now stirring the beast within Lupin that would howl for human flesh in a matter of days. The irregular orb shone down mockingly on him, illuminating the broken, weed-choked pavement that had led him to the culmination of his search.

It was a dead end.

_(intercapedo)_

Lupin waited in the Hog's Head through that night and well into the next morning for the appearance of his last contact, a fellow werewolf by the name of Hamilton who fostered loose ties with the Death Eaters for the prospect of an occasional odd job. If anyone within Lupin's reach would know of dark activity in the Death Eater circuit, it was him. Lupin could not ignore the risk posed by meeting with Hamilton. He would become vulnerable to Death Eaters if he announced his presence to one of their informants, but Lupin had to take the chance. He was running out of sources on his own, and time was not in his favor. Soon he would transform and could be of no help to Hermione.

Lupin recoiled from thoughts of her as he sat alone with his head in his hands at a sticky, wooden table within the smoky Hogsmeade pub. He could not seem to banish her name or the memory of her face from his mind. He remembered the warmth of her and the smallness of her frame as she'd fallen asleep on his chest days before. He could picture her soft and keenly intelligent features as clearly as though she were standing before him. He imagined the way her lips parted and the contours of her small nose became sculpted and sharp whenever she assumed that furiously thoughtful expression.

Hermione could not be dead, he told himself. If Lord Voldemort or his Death Eaters wanted her dead, they would have simply killed her instead of plotting this elaborate abduction. She had been captured, but anything else would have been conjecture at that point. Lupin had to trust her Muggle blood to keep her safe from any roving intentions of her captors, but he could not protect her from whatever purpose the Death Eaters had in store unless he got an idea of where she was, and quickly. The alternative was staggering.

Lupin dug his palms against his eye sockets, hoping the pain would help reign in his imagination.

He had been waiting for the backlash. He had walked around blindly those last days, smiling vaguely in public, kissing her in secret and all the time waiting for the other boot to drop. Here was his punishment for believing he could ever find some shred of contentment in Hermione's affection. He'd kept her at arm's length for the sake of the monster within, and then he'd sent her off alone to face the real monsters out here. He had failed her as a teacher, as an admirer and a friend. She was gone—taken—and she hadn't even defended herself.

Suddenly Lupin couldn't breathe. There was a strange, sharp scent lingering in the back of his sinuses. A tight pang wound the muscles taut across his back. _Not here_, Lupin thought as if he could will away the pain of being so close to his own transformation. He had to be alone for this, to avoid the attention and the questions. He shot to his feet and stumbled toward the restroom, knocking into chairs, tables, and another bar patron as he went. He couldn't help his suddenly impaired motor functions, and Lupin depended on the illusion of simply being intoxicated. He also depended on the one-stall restroom being empty by the time he got there.

It was.

"_Colloportus_," he growled between clenched teeth, and not a moment too soon. The stone floor rose to meet him with alarming speed. He went down on his side and arched rigidly in pain. His muscles seized in silence, contracting with agony as Lupin thrashed on the floor. It lasted for several minutes this time. He gasped once, tasting blood in his mouth, as the worst of the pain went out of him. Lupin felt immensely heavy as he lay on the ground, as though he would sink right through the stone tiles if they were a bit less dense.

After a while he hauled himself up with tremendous reserves of strength, his every muscle screaming protest, and inspected himself in the dingy mirror. He'd bitten deeply into his tongue, but Lupin spluttered a charm and the wound healed. He spat a mouthful of blood into the sink and then splashed his face with cool water.

The pain of becoming a werewolf had progressed exquisitely throughout the course of Lupin's life. His pre-transformation discomfort had evolved into energy-draining episodes like these. Normally he'd rest for a while after one of his seizures. That morning, however, he could spare no time for himself. Lupin had to keep his wits about him. He smoothed his shirt beneath his robes, fixed his part and returned to his table to discover that the barman had gotten him a fresh butterbeer while he'd been gone. Lupin sighed. He didn't have any money left. He was going to have to walk out on the tab again. But not yet. He sank down into his chair and began kneading one aching shoulder, half-asleep where he sat.

Soon, a man with shoulder-length, sandy hair and green robes swept over to Lupin's table. The man took an unbidden seat across from him and plunked down a tankard onto the tacky tabletop as he sat. "You've been spooking some people in my circles, Remus," he said without introduction. "Your friends in the Order seem to be making a considerable racket in comparison."

"Glad you could make sense of the owl I sent you, Hamilton," Lupin said shortly, feeling irritable and sore from his seizure. "So you're familiar with my search. Let's save ourselves the pleasantries and talk about Death Eater involvement in the disappearance of this thing I'm looking for."

Hamilton chuckled. "Not so hasty, friend," he said. "The Death Eaters had nothing to do with her _disappearance_. But you already knew that. Their worthless Squib hireling did all the work of that nature. I imagine he thought it would bolster his standing among the Death Eaters."

"I've already spoken with Nate. It's gotten me nowhere. I need your help."

"My employer forbade me from telling you anything," said Hamilton with a shake of his shaggy, blond head.

"Who is your employer?"

He lifted the beer to his lips and took a long draft before answering, "Someone who pays me a hell of a lot more than you ever could."

Lupin's hand moved absently in one deep pocket, brushing against the empty phial of potion he'd bought in Knockturn Alley several nights ago.

"Oh, don't even think of using Veritaserum on me," Hamilton said, chuckling as Lupin's eyes widened. "My employer told me you'd come looking for answers. I'm to give you this instead." He thrust his hand inside his robe and produced a sealed sheet of parchment, which he held over the sticky tabletop toward him. Lupin took it with nerveless fingers. "That's all I can do, my friend," Hamilton said with a helpless lift of his shoulders. He took another swig from his tankard. "So I assume we won't be seeing you underground this month?"

Lupin chose not to answer. He glanced up from the roll of parchment and said, "I have to remind you of the utmost discretion…"

"—A fellow werewolf's secrets are always safe with me, Remus. I won't even name a price for my silence. How's that for brotherhood?" Hamilton stood and dropped a few coins for their beers. Then he took Lupin in with a sweep of his eyes and murmured, "You should sleep. You look like hell."

When Hamilton had gone, Lupin broke the seal on the parchment, unrolled it and read the words printed there in neat, compulsive script:

"_The Shrieking Shack, eight this evening._

_Don't try anything foolish, Lupin."_

_(intercapedo)_

Lupin found himself scratching the same patch on the back of his left hand over and over again. The itch had long since been abated, but the scrape of his nails on raw skin helped to keep him awake. The creaking boards of the old house complained while Lupin sat stiffly near the gaping doorframe of a dusty room. He hadn't moved in several hours, his bum tingled numbly where it contacted the hard floor and his back ached. He knew he'd be too exhausted to defend himself if this whole thing was a trap, but Lupin had to go through with it.

The sun had begun to set beyond the jagged fragments of glass clinging to the windowpanes when Lupin heard footsteps on one of the lower floors of the house. His eyes snapped open; he must have forgotten to keep scratching his now-bloody hand and had nearly dozed off. He straightened from his slouch against the wall, carefully and soundlessly got his feet under himself and stood. He waited without breathing beside the door until the floorboards creaked in the hallway outside. Lupin kept his wand hand raised as the cloaked figure rounded the corner.

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The other wand, which had been held loosely at the newcomer's side, flew away into the corner of the room. The man's pale face sneered at Lupin between curtains of greasy, black hair. "I see you anticipated me," he said, his voice a sharp, slow and sibilant whisper that lacerated the groaning of the house.

"Severus. You hired Hamilton," Lupin accused, keeping the tip of his wand leveled at Snape's chest.

"Quite the deduction. I trust you did not strain yourself in arriving at that conclusion," he mocked in a silky voice. The highlights of his eyes flickered in silent satisfaction, and he continued, "Hamilton's intentions are honorable enough, but I felt he needed a bit of guidance to keep him out of trouble."

Lupin failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice as he said, "And I'm sure you know everything about _honorable_ intentions."

Snape blinked. "My reasons for doing what I did transcended any obligation to explain myself to the likes of you," he said. "Didn't you wonder why I had not returned to headquarters with the Death Eaters in full force?"

"Probably because you knew we had set so many protective spells against your presence that you'd splinch yourself trying to get away."

"I foster delicate ties to the Dark Lord," Snape explained casually, tugging at the long, black sleeves of his robes as though speaking to Lupin might somehow put wrinkles into them. "This puts me in the situation of making unpleasant choices. I cannot expect you to understand why a man like Dumbledore would sacrifice himself for my credibility."

"Albus Dumbledore was murdered. You killed him. Harry saw it."

Snape sighed and pursed his thin lips in a gesture worthy of McGonagall. "We're straying from the subject," he clipped in his soft, hissing voice. "A group of Death Eaters recently took it upon themselves to lure Potter from the protection of the Order by making off with one of his friends. This operation is being conducted outside of the Dark Lord's authorization, which is the only reason I am able to come to you with the information you need."

Lupin shook his head obstinately. "You're trying to mislead me. It won't work."

"Granger has been promised to Fenrir Greyback if Potter doesn't show himself. She's to be made an example of. In little more than a day—on the night of the full moon, of course—she will be given to Greyback to have her throat ripped out…or worse," he finished with a suggestive lift of one severely arched brow.

All the breath left Lupin's lungs while he coped with that image. At last he swallowed the bile in his throat and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"I had to make certain you'd not be a waste of my time. You _are_ serious about saving her life, aren't you?"

"I don't need the help of a _traitor_," he growled.

Snape spread his palms in mock appeal. "My mistake," he pronounced deliberately. "Or isn't that what you told Hamilton this morning? You said you needed help." He paused as though to allow Lupin to disagree. When his challenge went unmet, Snape continued calmly, "Dumbledore left me to look after the students and unfortunately the little know-it-all falls under that category.

"I can't trust you," Lupin said flatly.

"You don't have a choice. Surely you don't think the rest of the Order stands a chance of finding her first? You made sure to snatch up the leads before the others could react. They remain days behind you and you'll soon transform. You've already put yourself in the position of being the only one who can help her. Do not fail by being selective about your sources now that so little time remains."

"What do you want in return?"

"A bit more respect from you wouldn't hurt," Snape observed pointedly. "I also require the Order's cooperation in the months to come. Hogwarts is in my care now, and I won't have you sniffing around in my backyard. You'll know when you are needed. Tell the others to stay away until the proper time and in return I'll give you the girl." He sneered. "It's your decision."

Lupin sighed. He was so exhausted.

Hesitantly, he lowered his wand hand although his fingers remained tensely wrapped around the handle. "If anything's happened to her," he said hoarsely, "so help me, I will come after you and kill you myself—_protractedly_. And I won't need a wand; I'll use my hands." He thought he saw the other man's dark eyes widen briefly as he judged the merit of that promise. Then Lupin demanded, "Where is Hermione?"

Snape's sneer twisted into an unwholesome smile as he said, "I can tell you exactly where to find her."


	12. Chapter 11

It's a short one, but I think it's a good one. Enjoy.

Oh, and I decided I wouldn't make you wait any longer. If you want the illustration I made for this scene, just drop me a line via e-mail: "pynk" underscore "moon" at "hotmail" dot "com". I've got a high-quality psd file and a lower-sized jpg. Please specify in the subject line that you're inquiring about the drawing. Otherwise I'll probably delete the message.

_(coeptus)_

She had no real sense of the day or time. She was aware that it was always fairly dark there—wherever she was—and she had the impression that she hadn't moved in a very long time. A peculiar weight seemed to keep her motionless and anchored to the hard, uncomfortable floor. Sounds came and went from her perception as she dozed among degrees of wakefulness.

The girl had a tenuous recollection of who she was in general; she was certain she was a student and somehow involved in a separatist group with others who, like her, were not quite normal. She was lucid enough to guess it was her ties to this group that had caused her to end up lying here on the cold floor. She was not conscious enough, however, to reason through much else. Each time her wandering mind grasped at a detail of her life or identity, the girl would find her head oddly thick and fuzzy, and she would drift deeper into sleep and away from cognizance.

She seemed to remember her friends as if they had chanced into existence within a dream she'd had once, many years before. She could not be sure they had every truly been real, though that thought was obviously absurd and made her feel unbearably lonely. She could not quite conjure them all distinctly in her mind. She knew that several of them were male and rather stupid, though a less foolish individual seemed to stick out in her mind as the exception. She felt an inexplicable sense of warmth when she remembered her thin, dark-haired, bespectacled companion. He had always been the one saving her, or another one of their friends. She realized she must have cared for him a great deal, and wondered for a moment where he could be, or if he was suffering similarly.

Then the girl drifted back asleep and did not stir for some time.

A soft, hollow scraping noise roused her. With detached alarm, she recognized the sound of the door opening. Faint, yellowish light flooded the place and she squeezed her eyes shut. There was a hushed scuffle of shoes against the floor. She remembered that several of her captors would come around now and then to toss her bread crusts she hadn't the strength to eat, to pour lukewarm water down her throat or to simply stand over her, talking to each other in tones that suggested simultaneous loathing and amusement. She recalled the way a solitary one of them had crouched before her and slid a wandering hand up her skirt. His probing fingers had been shockingly cold, and he'd laughed darkly at her whimpered response.

Thinking of more such abuse from the newcomer, the girl tried to cover her face with her hands—as though hiding her face might somehow hide the rest of her away from the cruel ministrations of her hosts—but found that her wrists were too impossibly heavy to move.

She felt hands on her wrists where the cold weights anchored her to the bare floor. The hands touched her with an urgency that could not be ignored, even from within her mental haze. There was a soft clicking sound and the metal weights fell away from her skin. The fingers grazed her tender flesh where the cuffs had chaffed her, and suddenly no discomfort remained there. Then she felt those hands scoop her up about the shoulders, and at last she decided this could not be one of her heartless captors. It was _him_, she thought with a thrill of relief—the one who stood out most clearly in her memory. The one with dark hair, round glasses and the lighting bolt-shaped scar on his brow. His name was Harry, she realized. But the girl knew even in her delirium this was a terribly unsafe place for him to venture.

She stirred in his strong arms, noting distantly how much larger he felt as opposed to the way she remembered him. Then she recalled the spite and the cruelty of her captors, and the girl struggled to loosen her tongue in her throat. She wanted to warn him, or to at least shout at him for his recklessness; he should not have come for her at all. She blinked at the face hovering above her, trying to clear her vision so that she could properly rebuke him for his error. But then her breath seized up feebly in her lungs, because the face that slid into focus was not Harry's. It was a familiar face—plain, honest and scarred. The recognition she felt at the sight drove some of the fog out before it in her mind.

Gazing down on her with gray-streaked bangs falling into his gentle, hazel eyes, Remus Lupin was the most precious sight in the world to her. She knew in the same moment that she had nothing left to fear of that horrible place or her brutal captors. She was safe now.

All at once, and without knowing why, Hermione burst into tears.


	13. Chapter 12

To all my readers: Merry Christmas.

To my Beta: I didn't want to bother you with this one, Marble Meadow. I was comfortable with it and—I'll be honest—impatient to finally post. Let's hope you don't spot any egregious errors now that it's up…

_(coeptus)_

Suddenly the girl in his arms started sobbing.

The sound was explosive in the stillness of the room. Lupin reflexively clapped a hand down over her mouth.

"_Silencio_," he whispered fiercely and his ears strained in the renewed quiet for any sign of alarm within the house. A hush and a distant dripping noise met his ears. When he was sure the clan of Death Eaters was not rushing in to check on their prisoner, the practicality of the situation occurred to Lupin.

Hermione was crying.

Whether from fear or relief, it was a reaction he had not prepared himself for. He looked her over curiously, searching for indications that she was injured or in pain. Her fair skin was smeared with grime, her unkempt hair was damp with natural oils and her dress bore one long rip halfway up to her hip from the short hem. Her small feet were bare, her shins and knees scraped, but she was otherwise intact. Lupin had to force his eyes away from brutal-looking bruises on her knees, because the angry bile rising into his throat reminded him of a temper that still longed to make someone suffer for her condition.

He absently noticed that he was still covering her mouth, though her sobs were utterly silent now. Hermione's hands were feebly clutching his forearm—the small and clammy palms of a child pressed insubstantially against his skin. Her tiny fingers were like ice. He moved his hand away from her mouth, smoothed her tangled hair out of her tear-stained face, and brushed her jaw with his thumb.

His breath seemed to burn his lungs. His chest was heavy. His throat was very tight. He realized streams of warmth had flooded down his cheeks. He shifted Hermione into one arm, pressing her closely against his chest. With his free hand, he quickly grabbed the hem of his long, gray cloak and threw it about them both, hoping it would warm her. Hermione had never before seemed so small…so very _fragile_, and the thought frightened him. He refused to consider what would have happened to something so absurdly delicate if he'd been too late.

After a while, her sobs had diminished into quiet hiccups. Her frame jerked weakly in his arms a few times. Then she heaved a great, shuddering sigh. He held her away from himself and inspected her more closely.

Lupin's fingers were clumsy as he tried to wipe away the tears from Hermione's soaked cheeks. The girl's eyes—still moist—rolled aimlessly at his touch. Her brow was tense, her eyelids heavy. She looked either exhausted or very confused. Or perhaps both, Lupin thought. He had already cast a silent healing spell on the torn skin of her wrists, but he didn't trust himself in his sleep-deprived state to diagnose any other injuries or befuddlement charms that might afflict her. Instead, he decided immediate escape would be the safest course of action.

Without a word of explanation to the girl (he suspected she wouldn't have comprehended, the way her chocolate brown eyes kept wandering in her head) Lupin wandlessly cast a disillusionment charm on her. She shivered in his arms as she disappeared from sight, but nothing could be done for the unpleasantly cold and wet sensation Lupin knew she had felt trickling down her spine.

_Hold on,_ he wanted to say to her, but dared not to risk it aloud.

Lupin gathered her up. Thinking of decency, he tried to hold her short skirt in place against her legs with the arm that he hooked under her knees. Heat rose into his cheeks when the skirt slipped down the first time and he realized he was touching the bare skin on the backs of her thighs. He decided this was no time for self-consciousness, smoothed the fabric back into place and lifted the girl experimentally in his arms.

He stood easily—she was lighter than he expected—and soundlessly went back the way he came. Outside the door, the short hallway that ended in a flight of stairs was just as empty as he'd left it. The wooden stairs were tricky to navigate while he was distracted by the bundle that remained invisible in his arms. Hermione's added weight threw off his calculations, and the first step creaked under Lupin's foot. He froze, readjusted the subtle muffling charm, and warily continued his ascent.

The stairs leveled out into a small room. There was a single candlestick burning on a table in the corner. The fresh night guard had still not arrived, which seemed perfectly reasonable to Lupin, as he quite clearly recalled leaving the man in an upstairs closet with a gruesome swelling on the side of his head. He wondered if the firewhiskey-addled Death Eater he'd caught by surprise would survive the injury. A dark, resentful part of Lupin hoped the Death Eater's superior would soon amend the situation, if that were the case…

It had been easy enough to slip unnoticed into the shabby-looking house in Kent when he was alone. The idiots who were running this unauthorized operation were as careless as Snape had said they would be. But Lupin could not shake the suspicion that some sort of trap lay in store for him, that the evening guard would return looking for his replacement, that one of the other useless Death Eaters defending this nondescript hideout would come to investigate, or that Severus himself would be waiting for Lupin around the corner. He might just be able to rush out of the house in time if he were observed to be alone. If an ambusher suspected the girl was with him, perhaps wrapped in an invisibility cloak or hidden by a disillusionment charm like the one she actually wore, Lupin would not stand a chance of escape. He was in no state to fend off an attack, and the precious warmth of Hermione against his chest did little to clear the weary, unfocused fog from his mind.

He felt the girl sigh against him, and his stomach tightened with renewed determination to see her through this alive. He swallowed hard and forced himself to concentrate on not making any sound as he crept the length of the small, candlelit room. He carefully pressed himself to the wall beside the door and peered around the frame, watchful for movement or the waiting shadows of Death Eaters in ambush. Moonlight was the only occupant of the long, dark hallway he'd traversed moments ago on his way down to retrieve the girl. His very joints protested painfully at the sight of the silvery glow through the far window. He'd be transforming so soon…

Lupin crushed Hermione as closely as he could against his chest—feeling her shallow breath on the hollow of his neck—and crossed the corridor in four long strides. He paused at the intersection of the next hallway, remembering it was a short distance to the foyer where the cover would be limited. His next steps would have to be decisive, and very quick. He had nearly set foot into the corridor when a low, male voice stopped him.

"And just where do yeh think yeh're goin'?" it demanded harshly.

Lupin's heart hammered against his ribcage. He'd been seen. He held his breath, thinking of his wand located in the deep outer pocket of his cloak and wondering how quickly he could get to it and level a few curses before trying to flee. He had not yet moved, however, when a second male voice answered the first.

"Aw, come off it, Goyle," the new voice drawled lazily. "I can't stand this hole. I'm going to get a pint."

Lupin nuzzled the top of Hermione's head through her hair, silently willing her to be quiet and still. They could not be discovered. Around the corner in the foyer, the Death Eaters' conversation continued.

"Lucious would kill yeh if 'e knew yeh were drinkin' on the job," Goyle said.

"Nobody's coming for the little Mudblood, anyway," his companion whined. "No one's even seen Potter around since the incident near King's Cross. Here's no fun, anyway. I'm not allowed near the girl and there's nothing else to do."

"An' you'd be wise to stay away from 'er, too. Yeh were lucky Lucious found yeh in there with 'er when 'e did, before yeh could make an ass of yerself."

Lupin's face burned at that comment. He realized he was shaking in anger.

"There's nothing wrong with looking," the other said in a wounded tone.

"As I understand it, yeh were doin' a right bit more than _lookin_,'" Goyle chortled darkly.

Lupin breathed out slowly and mentally counted backward from ten to distract himself from the thought of how easily he could rip out _that one_'s throat if he weren't burdened by Hermione's weight or the imminent responsibility of her life.

"Come on upstairs," Goyle's harsh voice continued. "I think Emmett's got a spot o' firewhiskey we can filch from 'im." They laughed together and their footsteps receded on the floorboards.

Lupin speculated that if the one he'd knocked out and left in the closet just up the stairs moments ago was Emmett—or had gotten into Emmett's stores—then he and Hermione had very little time left to escape. Goyle and his companion would soon discover the incapacitated night guard and likely check in on their prisoner. There was no time to waste. He listened for more sounds from the foyer but only heard the creak of the staircase and the Death Eaters' distant voices as they made their way upstairs.

He made the decision instantly. He could not leave through the back window he'd climbed in through. He would have to carry Hermione out through the main door. If it did not open easily, he would have to open it by force—which almost necessitated noise. It would mean a quick dash outside beyond the perimeter of the wards before the Death Eaters could stop him. Lupin would have to chance it.

The exit was suspiciously easy.

A muttered, "_Alohomora_," opened the front door as Lupin swept across the foyer. The door creaked only slightly on its hinges as it swung inward, letting in a cool draft of night air. The corners of Lupin's robe were flapping against the doorframe as he slipped out into the night, when a harsh voice cursed loudly somewhere within the house. The bellow echoed down the stairs after Lupin, who did not pause for a moment or glance back to see if he was being pursued.

He fled. He jumped down from the creaky porch and was running as soon as his feet hit the earth. He raced along the side of the darkened building. The pale moonlight kindled fire in his veins. He kept running until he found the weakened place in the ward behind the house. The spell he'd put there moments before still kept, but it was fading. The fissure in the ward would be much more resistant to his presence as he passed through. This would not be pleasant, but there was no other option. Lupin was fairly certain he was being followed, and time was short. His arms tightened on the reassuring weight of Hermione in his arms, and he stepped quickly through. He pushed past the strong aversion, the sick feeling in his suddenly knotted stomach, and then the pain as the final threshold of the ward sliced through him. In the same movement, Lupin turned in place and the world closed violently in on him.

He was careful to keep a clear focus on every part of himself and Hermione as he disapparated. Lupin knew he'd never forgive himself if he managed to save the girl from her captors, only to splinch her in half on the way home. It was exceptionally difficult to concentrate through the exhaustion and the dull euphoria of the girl's warmth against his chest, but Lupin arrived on the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place with Hermione intact.

Lupin would not let himself feel relief just yet. The door opened easily and he closed it with his foot when he was inside. It must have been late; the house was quiet. A small, fiery redhead appeared around the corner from the living room and stopped at the sight of Lupin. Ginny Weasley's eyes widened slightly at him and she arched her brows curiously. Lupin wondered how she could stare so dumbly at him after all he'd done to bring her best friend home. Then it occurred to him that he'd never lifted the disillusionment charm, and that he must have looked peculiar appearing in the middle of the night in the foyer of headquarters with his arms curled up about thin air.

"_Finite Incantatem_," he whispered hoarsely, effectively ending both the disillusionment and the silencing charms he'd placed on the girl. Hermione sighed against him and nuzzled his chest as she reappeared into view.

Ginny's face brightened. Her mouth hung open mutely for a second before she shrieked, "Hermione!"

That startled Lupin. He had focused—had fixated—these last days on bringing the girl home alive. No other thought had sustained him. Now that he'd brought her back, he didn't know what to do with her next. Something told him rather calmly that she needed her bed and the care of a healer, but Lupin couldn't bring himself to move from the entryway. He stood there numbly waiting for direction.

Ginny had run to his side, and others were following her from around the corner. Molly Weasley was there with Arthur, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall. They all stood gaping at him for a second.

"Good heavens," Minerva gasped.

Arthur spluttered, "Remus, how on earth did you manage…?"

Lupin inexplicably understood that he had to clear Snape's name. He owed it to the man to be honest. "Severus," he murmured at length, hoping the answer was clear enough, because he lacked the strength to properly explain all that had happened.

Their faces were blank as they processed that.

"_Headmaster_…" Minerva wondered breathlessly.

"What did he have to gain by delivering her to you?" Arthur asked.

"A trap," Kingsley suggested softly. "Arthur, we must secure the perimeter." They exchanged a significant look and appeared ready to move for the door when Lupin interrupted them.

"He won't come," he said dryly. "He asks us to entrust Hogwarts to him. That's all." Lupin realized he would have entrusted his life to Severus now. He would give him anything he asked for, because Severus had given back to Lupin what was most precious in the world.

Hermione girl groaned weakly into his chest, her small and delicate hands clutching at his shirt. Lupin's legs felt treacherously unsteady beneath him.

Minerva came to his rescue. "Take Miss Granger to her room," she commanded, her voice all strength and steely coldness now.

He nodded once and turned in place, not thinking of any other way to get her there. They apparated together in her bedroom. Hermione whimpered.

"It's over," he murmured at her helplessly as he lowered her onto her bed.

A ginger tabby looked on where he sat immovable as a statue in the corner. Crookshanks' inquisitive, golden eyes expectantly watched Lupin's movements as he tended the girl. Lupin gently propped Hermione's head on a pillow, straightened her legs and smoothed out her skirt, making sure it covered enough of her thighs for her to be presentable. He closed his hand over hers only briefly before the door opened to admit Minerva. Molly followed close behind her, twisting her thumbs and wearing a nervous look. Lupin straightened and stepped back to allow the older woman access to the invalid. She swept toward the prone, trembling form of Hermione and began flicking her wand expertly over the girl. Minerva's lips moved feverishly but her voice was inaudible as she muttered anonymous incantations.

"Something's wrong with her," Lupin offered lamely.

Hermione stirred atop the comforter, turning her face in Lupin's direction although her eyes rolled aimlessly beneath half-closed lids.

Minerva pursed her lips and said, "Mmm. Something beyond common magic. I don't know if it's some sort of Muggle drug. We'll need our contact from St. Mungo's," she diagnosed shrewdly. Then she turned aside and said, "Molly."

The red-haired woman stopped wringing her hands long enough to say, "At once, Minerva."

"—I'll go and get her," Lupin offered automatically. He thought he'd be able to remember the name of the portly little healer who sometimes took meals at headquarters.

"You most certainly will not. It's time you rested," Minerva said gently, but quite firmly. The girl currently under her scrutiny stirred again, more forcefully this time. A somewhat strangled sound escaped her lips as her head thrashed weakly on the pillow. "_Hermione_?" Minerva asked with some alarm.

Lupin had unconsciously taken one step closer to the bed. He saw Molly glance at him once, but didn't return her gaze. Crookshanks meowed expectantly in the short silence that followed.

"What's that?" Minerva wondered, leaning farther over the girl.

It was then Lupin realized Hermione's mouth was moving feebly, making a thin, tight parting of her lips. Her breath silently passed through the shape of her mute mouth. Her fingers scrabbled at the fabric of the quilt beneath her.

"What's the matter, child? You have to speak to us," Minerva prodded kindly.

Tears gathered in her eyes and quickly spilled down her temples as Hermione's mouth tightened and she breathed, "R—Remus." Her brows pulled together and her eyes squeezed shut, shedding more tears. "_Remus_," she wept again, her soft voice straining. The trembling fingers of one hand had risen from the comforter and were reaching out weakly toward him.

Molly was staring at Lupin with a slightly horrified expression, but Minerva settled on one severe glance before turning her back on him again. "He's nearby, child," she told the girl. "Shh. There, there—try to rest. You're safe now, Miss Granger. You're home."

Lupin had already turned away, but he heard Hermione sigh before he left the room. She would sleep now, he thought. She would sleep, and she would be all right. Lupin could go on living in a world where Hermione Granger was whole and far from the brutality of Fenrir Greyback's fangs. He closed the door quietly behind himself and made for the stairs, leaning heavily against the wall as he went. Soon Molly brushed past him hurriedly, probably on her way to alert their St. Mungo's contact. She shot Lupin a curious and troubled look as she passed him. Something in the knit of her brow and the pull of her lips seemed almost apologetic, but Lupin could not find it within himself to acknowledge the look. Molly overtook him without speaking.

Lupin had not realized how tired he was until he thought of his bed on the second floor of the house. His sleep was postponed, however, when he met Nymphadora on the stairwell. He did not recognize the mud-brown hair at first, being too distracted by the pained and anxious expression. He knew the look; it mirrored how he'd felt only moments before when Hermione had still been captive in hostile territory.

He thought he should have said hello to Nymphadora, but he found he had nothing to say to her.

Instead, the woman began the confrontation, her voice coming out in a rapid jumble of syllables: "Is it true that Her….is _she_ really back? You found her? The kids are so upset."

Lupin could make out Harry's voice somewhere on ground floor, murmuring comfort over Ginny's somewhat subdued hysterics. He felt a distant wave of gratitude to James' son for keeping the chaos contained downstairs, away from the sleeping Hermione.

"She's home," Lupin answered shortly.

"Is she okay?"

"Minerva's taking care of her. She'll be fine."

Nymphadora sighed massively and blinked some of the anxiety from her eyes. "And," she wondered timidly, "how are you holding up?"

"Better, now."

She nodded once, rather deliberately, as though she'd come to a decision. She was silent for a very long moment. Lupin had almost considered walking past her when Nymphadora grinned tightly and said, "You really do love her?"

He felt he was not as shocked by that as he ought to have been. "I do," he said flatly.

"Then she deserves you." The grin was slightly more relaxed as she went on, "I only hope that girl gives you hell, Remus John Lupin."

He laughed once and without any humor in the sound at all. He rubbed tiredly at his neck and said, "I'm sorry for the way I lost my temper earlier. I shouldn't have yelled at you, Tonks."

The muddy hue thinned from her hair, revealing a pale shade of pink underneath. "I earned it. She was my responsibility and I fudged it up," she said, smiling weakly up at Lupin. Before he could disagree, she jabbed a finger in the air, pointing in a generally upstairs direction, and went on, "I'm going to see if Minerva needs anything."

He nodded mutely.

"Get some sleep, Lupin. You look terrible," Tonks said gently as she walked past him up the stairs.

"Wait."

She shot him a curious look over her shoulder. Lupin dug a hand into an inner pocket of his robe. His fingers closed on the slender piece of wood, and he held it up to Tonks. "It's hers; I found it where she was taken," he explained. "Could you please leave it for her? For when she wakes up."

The corners of her mouth weakly twitched upward. She took the wand from his hand, held it in her palm and studied it for a minute. Tonks looked at him and said, "You must love her a lot, then." When Lupin didn't respond, she smiled again—a bit sadly, this time—turned and disappeared up the stairs.

He blinked for a moment into the space she had been. Then he finally made his way to his room. He grinned ironically when he saw the book lying closed upon the bedspread and remembered his flight from headquarters days before. The smile felt odd on his face, and Lupin supposed it more closely resembled a grimace. It slid effortlessly from his lips.

Lupin brushed the book aside and it thudded to the floor. He never wanted to pick it up again and return to the page he'd been reading while Hermione was being abducted. He sighed and lowered himself stiffly to the bed, not bothering to turn down the sheets.

When Lupin blinked, a warm glow had set into the sky beyond his window. He felt as though he'd only been dozing for a few moments—he had not even moved atop the comforter—but the light in the sky told him the hour was much later. Either just after sunrise or just before sunset, he thought. With a groan, Lupin sat up, feeling his joints creak in fiery protest.

Late evening, then. This pain could only signal an imminent transformation.

Lupin rose and limped quietly to the door; he'd slept wrong on his leg, and now his foot was asleep and tingling painfully. He considered going upstairs to see Hermione, then thought about Minerva or Molly perhaps overseeing the girl, and suddenly he felt tired. There wasn't time for it tonight, anyway. Instead, he turned right outside his room, followed the hallway downstairs and entered into the living room. He stood in front of the one filmy window and gazed into the yard at the bare planks of the unfinished shed.

The house seemed unusually quiet—perhaps everyone was away on business or had abandoned the house at the idea of Snape returning with a guard of Death Eaters. Lupin knew the once-tolerated (not exactly _trusted_) member of the Order would not come back looking for trouble. He'd stayed away all this time that the Order had not been on high alert, Lupin reminded himself, so there would be no point of Snape coming back now. He understood the others would not believe so easily.

"Sleeping Beauty awakes," growled a low, sardonic voice from behind Lupin. "Good thing, too. I'd almost decided to go wake you myself, and I know how pointless that endeavor would be. I didn't want to have to drag your unconscious form out into the yard. It's nearly time, Remus..."

"Yes, thank you for remembering, Alastor," Lupin said quietly.

"You ought to know that was an absurdly stupid thing to do." Mad-Eye's voice almost seemed to chew the words. Lupin didn't have to turn around to imagine the sneer on his scarred and twisted face.

"Would you have done any differently?"

"Of course," he barked. "I would have consulted with my peers before flying into the trap."

"The trap was meant for Harry," Lupin corrected him, turning to face the gnarled old wizard. "I was much more careful about the extraction than the Death Eaters anticipated—with help from our friend," he added reluctantly. "There's no harm done. The girl is safely returned and Harry was nowhere near his enemies."

Alastor's magical eye was unnervingly still in its socket, as though Mad-Eye were boring into Lupin's mind. "But he _did_ go near the Death Eaters, Remus," he said dryly at last. "He sought out and killed one of them."

"What?"

"Let's go for a walk," Alastor said with a vague gesture toward the back of the house. Lupin obediently fell in at his side as Alastor explained, "It happened in an alley a few streets down from King's Cross station. That was one of Harry's favorite haunts while he patrolled the London streets at night. Stalking Death Eaters, as I understand it now. He ran out of the house soon after you'd gone—wonder where he got the brilliant idea—and supposedly ambushed a Death Eater. I arrived just as it happened, and as best I can tell, a curse backfired. Harry told me he hadn't meant to kill her. But that didn't excuse the tremendous risk he took. And, speaking of risks…

"It was downright foolish, what you did, Remus. The Order needed you here. Disappearing like that was utterly brainless. It was reckless, headstrong, and…and _brilliant_," he added with a note of regret in his voice. Still, his living eye glinted mirthfully. "I have to admit you were a great deal faster than the rest of us. We were still stuck on Tom the barman when you stumbled in here this morning."

Lupin hoped his answering grin wasn't too smug. "I did have help," he reminded the other man as they left through the back door together. The sun had just set when they began crossing the yard. It was twilight now, but the stars were not yet visible.

"—Don't get me started on _that_ bit of genius," Alastor said sourly. "The girl's safe," he sighed, "and that's all that matters, I suppose."

They drew to a stop at the small wooden shanty. Lupin paused near the open side of the unfinished structure and asked, "How is Hermione?" Uttering her name caused a dull twinge of pain somewhere deep in his chest.

"Awake, the last I heard. McGonagall said a lot of things about befuddlement charms and something called Morph-eene," he pronounced carefully. "Nothing serious. I hear she's been asking for you—Granger, that is." He was smiling wickedly as he said it.

Lupin cast one last look up at the house, and sighed. The sky was very dark behind it.

"Ah, she'll still be there in the morning," Alastor said bracingly as he put a thick arm around his shoulders. "You're a very lucky man, Remus."

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"Might as well. The whole house knows about it, at least."

Lupin groaned. "Is it that obvious?"

"You made it that obvious when you flew out of here as though pursuit was the only thing that would keep you in one piece," Alastor chortled. "Don't worry. They're not talking about it aloud—not yet, anyway. Just a matter of time, I suppose." The gnarled man turned back toward the shack. He set the toe of his boot into the floor of the little cabin and began clearing aside dirt and twigs.

Lupin sighed as he watched the other wizard work. "I didn't want to put her through this kind of house-wide scrutiny," he said at length.

"Wouldn't it be better to act openly, though, than skirt around the issue any longer?" he growled, still kicking debris away from the outline of the metal hatch buried in the dirt. "You could use a good lay, my friend."

Lupin inhaled sharply, hissing slightly. "Please don't talk about her like that."

Alastor laughed darkly as he removed his stubby wand from the inside of his cloak. "It's getting late," he said, flicking his wand familiarly at the metal grate, which slid obligingly aside to reveal the shadowy staircase. "Let's get you locked up, Remus."

Lupin followed Alastor down, into the darkness.


	14. Chapter 13

Forgive the unforgivable delay.

I moved, started a new job and a new semester. The end's in sight, though—for both the story and my schooling career. Sit tight. I will never abandon this fic. As always, your comments, criticism and chastisement are encouraged.

_(coeptus)_

Hermione gazed through her bedroom window at the first stars winking feebly in the twilit sky. She sighed, wincing at the soreness of her muscles and the ache of her bones that she could feel through the healer witch's pain-relief charms.

"Are you hungry, dear?" asked a kind voice at her bedside.

"No thank you, Mrs. Weasley," she answered, still startled by the harsh, grating quality of her voice. "I'm feeling a bit nauseous, actually."

"All part of the withdrawal process, I'm told. Don't worry, child. It will pass."

But Hermione couldn't bring herself to worry about the nausea when she felt so feverishly hot. She sighed again and tossed aside the covers, ignoring the fire in her muscles as she moved. The cool air saturated her cotton pajamas. "That's better," she murmured hoarsely.

"Too warm," Mrs. Weasley speculated with a brisk little nod as she went to work neatly folding down the sheets that the girl had thrown aside. "Do you think you're feeling well enough for company?" she asked, carefully smoothing the folded band of blankets and sheets beneath the girl's feet.

Hermione suppressed the thrill of hope she felt at the thought of whom might be included in the vague term "company." She tried to keep excitement from her tone as she wondered, "Does someone want to see me?"

"The kids are in an uproar, of course. They're threatening to transfigure me into a lampshade if I don't let them in here soon. Oh, I've tried telling them what a bad state you're in, coming down from that awful _marphone_—"

"Morphine," Hermione corrected softly.

"—That's the one. Anyway, I tried to tell the kids what a bad state you're in, but you know how they are."

"Yes," she agreed mildly, somewhat distracted by the way Mrs. Weasley referred to all of Hermione's friends as "the kids." It was a phrase the girl had heard her use with the other adults in the house. Hermione silently wondered whether Molly meant anything by adopting it in this conversation.

"I don't have to let them in if you don't want me to," Mrs. Weasley hurried on, mistaking her look for hesitation. "I'll just tell them you're not feeling well enough. What's the worst that could happen? I think I can manage quite well as a lampshade, don't you worry about it."

Hermione let herself smile. "That's not necessary," she said. "I think I'd like some company."

"Splendid. Just Ginny then, I suppose. She's been the most upset over it, and it'll do her the most good to see you. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you all at once. Harry and Ron will have to wait—"

"I'd like to see them, too."

Mrs. Weasley uttered a faint, "Oh," in a way that suggested her difference of opinion. She fidgeted for a second, but instead of voicing her preference, she simply said, "They'll be glad to hear it; I've banished them all to kitchen work. They're cleaning up after supper now. I'll go and relieve them." She'd almost turned toward the door, but quickly stopped herself and delicately added, "Just a few minutes, dear, if it's going to be all of them. I'd hate to see you tire yourself out."

"Of course, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione replied obediently. The woman was being far too obliging for her to oppose such an innocent request. Perhaps Hermione was being overly gracious; she was too tired, however, to really care. It must have showed on her face, because Mrs. Weasley's expression became suddenly worried.

"Are you all right, dearest?" she asked softly, leaning over Hermione. "You've been through quite an ordeal. Isn't there anything I can get you?"

"You shouldn't—"

"No, child, I insist. Is there any thing at all you'd like? You name it and I'll fix it up for you, or I'll go out and get it otherwise. Anything at all. You should eat something."

Hermione chewed her lip, tasting bile at the thought of putting anything in her stomach. "There's only one thing I'd like to have," she said, wording her half-truth carefully.

"Anything, dear."

"Might I have some chocolate?"

"Chocolate?" Mrs. Weasley's look was bewildered.

"Mmm," Hermione said, "Just a bar of Honeyduke's best milk chocolate. If it's not too much trouble."

The woman's eyes flickered hesitantly. "Not at all," she said. "Arthur is stepping out this evening; I'll send him along to Hogsmeade while he's away."

"Thank you," Hermione said, hoping her little act was not too transparent. She felt a mild stab of guilt at inconveniencing Mrs. Weasley's kind husband, but it was of the utmost importance that it be a fine-quality chocolate. A smooth milky variety and not the dark, bitter stuff that left a sharp tang in the mouth long after. Such a creamy chocolate would cost less than its darker, richer counterpart, but it would still put her back a handful of sickles.

Hermione pointed toward a dresser in the corner. "There should be a few galleons in the coin purse," she told Mrs. Weasley. "Top drawer."

"Oh, don't you worry about that. Our treat," Molly said. Hermione tried to protest, but the woman stubbornly waved her off and refused to be reasoned with. "I'll send the kids up to see you now," she said after a moment of shushing Hermione's arguments.

"Thanks for everything, Molly."

Before Mrs. Weasley swept from the room, she turned back briefly and said, "About you and…well, that is, Remus is really…" She sighed. "I'm so sorry, dearest. I misjudged him."

She had gone by the time Hermione found her voice.

The next words through her door a moment later were Ginny's: "Hermione, thank God you're all right!" The red-haired girl threw herself over the bed and into an embrace with her friend.

"It's good to see you, too," Hermione said, patting Ginny's shoulder.

Harry was next, followed by Ron. They all seemed happy; they wore sincere enough smiles and greeted her with the proper amount of enthusiasm, which almost immediately began to exhaust her. But she still felt an odd tension in the silence between their exclamations of relief. It hummed like a rubber band stretched taut.

"Don't you ever scare us like that again," Ginny was saying. "Lucky we've got Lupin on our side. I don't want to think what might have happened otherwise."

Hermione twisted her thumbs. "Where is Remus?" she asked, trying to sound casual. Then she finally saw where she'd been mistaken to think they were all perfectly thrilled with the situation.

She could have sworn she heard the tiny snap of a rubber band breaking.

Harry's hand was already on the shoulder of Ron, whose face had turned pink and who appeared not to be breathing.

"Well—he's been asleep all day, actually," Ginny said quickly over the awkward moment. "None of us has seen him since he brought you back."

That statement stirred up a feeble wave of memory. No one image was clear enough for Hermione to recall, as a blur comprised the last few days in her mind. She knew it had been cold. It had been cold, and then he had been there, and everything turned warm. His voice had been the thing to wrench her initially from her confusion. She had to hear that voice again.

"How could you…" It was Ron.

"Ron," Harry said quietly, getting a better grip on his arm.

"Leave it," said Ginny.

His already pink face blushed scarlet so deeply that Hermione wondered if the normal pigment could ever return.

"Honestly, I don't know what you see in him," Ron growled. "It's not like I'm ungrateful to him for having saved you, but…Hermione, he's a _grown up!_"

"Ron, let's go…"

"—No, Harry, someone's got to tell her! The whole thing's just _sick_ if you ask me. How could you choose _him_, Hermione?"

"Harry, get him out of here," Ginny said.

Harry was already pushing Ron out the door before him. "We really are glad you're home," he added over his shoulder with a small smile. "Good night, Hermione."

It took Hermione a moment to realize the unpleasant churning of her stomach was guilt. She felt badly for having been dishonest about Remus for so long. But there was no hiding it now. Ron would have to be unhappy about her choice, because Hermione knew there was no other person in the world she wanted more, loved more.

"Don't worry," Ginny said, leaning down to squeeze her hand. "I think it's brilliant. You're good for one another. Harry likes the two of you together, too. We talked about it."

"It wasn't supposed to come out like this," Hermione groaned.

"Well, it would have had to come out sooner or later."

"What will everyone think of him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Remus," she sighed. "What will everyone think now that they know he's seeing a younger woman? I didn't want people saying cruel things about him. I wanted to spare him."

Ginny shrugged. "He and Tonks dated for a while, didn't they? And no one seemed upset by that. What's so different this time? Besides, everyone I've talked to has only said kind things. Sure, maybe they were all a bit put off when he disappeared to go looking for you…but he brought you back! Everyone thinks he's a hero—mum and dad, Fred and George—they won't stop talking about it."

"Ron…"

She waved dismissively in the direction he'd gone and said, "He'll be all right. He's just jealous. I reckon he's still a bit keen on you."

"I hurt him," Hermione suggested.

"No. He did that all by himself. Ron knew the two of you weren't compatible, ever since things didn't go well between you the first time. He's known you're entirely too clever, too driven and too, well, _old_—no offense—to be any good for him. He's a stubborn git, that's all."

Hermione sighed and picked at the threads of the sheets beneath her. "I just wish it didn't have to hurt him like this."

"Don't worry about Ron. He isn't your priority. You've got other things to think about now." The corners of her mouth twitched upward in a weak smile. "I heard Lupin was pretty messed up over this whole thing. Of course I wouldn't know, but I talked to Tonks."

Tonks. Another person hurt in the crossfire of what was developing between Hermione and Remus. Hermione only prayed Tonks would still want to be her friend now that everything was in the open.

Ginny must not have seen the way Hermione's face had fallen, because she went on without a beat, "I can't imagine how Lupin must have felt, thinking the girl he loved was gone…but this is depressing me. You're here, after all! Let's talk about something else."

But Hermione had lost the desire for conversation. When she didn't suggest any topics, Ginny went on talking about how great Hermione and Remus were together. Suddenly she plopped down on the edge of the bed, leaned forward confidentially and said through a silly grin, "So, how is it?"

Hermione blinked. "How is what?"

Ginny giggled. "You know…the sex."

"Ginny!"

"Oh come on, Hermione," she begged, "I've been dying to talk with you about it ever since that day Lupin followed you around like a lost puppy and helped with all our housework. The way he looks at you—now that's a _satisfied_ man."

"Ginny! I don't—we haven't—we aren't lovers, Ginny!" she spluttered, her cheeks aflame.

"You're not? Well, I suppose you'll have to be, now. I mean, he saved your _life_!"

"We are _not_ talking about this!"

All at once Hermoine had begun to feel feverish again, and very tired.

_(intercapedo)_

It was much later that night when she gave up trying to sleep. Her mind raced as she lay awake in bed, watching the branches of the tall trees through her window.

She was expecting a visit from Remus at any moment, whenever it was that he woke himself. She thought about what she would say, how she would run to him and embrace him. She thought about the way he would smell—like earth and sweat—the way his voice would vibrate in his chest as she held tight onto him, the way they would kiss.

The longer the night wore on, the more she craved their reunion. She wouldn't even mind if he visited her in her bedroom just as she was—in the dark and the silence of the house—because Hermione had a good idea of what would happen if the enthusiasm of their reunion embrace got out of hand and had to be relocated to a more horizontal venue.

Hermione's pulse was hammering loudly in her ears by the time she sat upright, abandoning all pretense of sleep. Crookshanks mewled grumpily from his position curled at her feet.

"Oh, shush up," she hissed, wanting to vent her frustration at something sentient. It was well past midnight, she knew, and Remus still had not come to see her! Before she worked herself up to cursing his name, Hermione considered that perhaps he simply wanted to avoid disturbing her rest. If that were the case, she thought, she could easily fix the misunderstanding that she was actually _capable_ of resting in her condition.

Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed—earning another feline growl—and quietly got to her feet. She snatched up her wand from the nightstand and stowed it in the hem of her pajama pants.

"Stay, Crookshanks," she whispered once she'd crossed the room and stood in the doorway, but she knew it was needless. There was little that could prompt the cat to leave a warm bed and follow his mistress.

Hermione intended to go down and surprise Remus in his room. If she was fortunate, she might even catch him asleep. She'd have the chance to wake him with one of the many unconventional methods playing out in her head. Feeling incredibly bold, the girl made her way downstairs to the first door on the right. She didn't knock, but opened the door as gently and quietly as possible—

And saw an empty bed in the pool of moonlight coming through the window. The sheets and comforter were neatly tucked in, but Remus was not.

There was a funny swooping sensation in her navel. Hermione stifled her sudden disappointment and headed down to the street level of the house.

This whole thing had started with their shared insomnia, Hermione reminded herself, although she realized she hadn't had nearly as much trouble sleeping since she and Remus began seeing one another.

Hermione glanced into the abandoned living room as she passed by. She would have crossed it to explore the dining room beyond, but she'd already seen the light flickering within the library down the hall. She was disappointed again when she entered the room to find only Alastor Moody sitting in a deep-backed chair and frowning severely into an ancient tome while a single candle guttered on the table beside him.

"What?" he barked without looking up.

"N—nothing," Hermione said. "I couldn't sleep, that's all."

"Mmm."

She had the impression Alastor didn't wish to be interrupted, but Hermione still felt restless and a bit baffled that Remus had disappeared. Sleep would not return for a while, she knew, and there was no better way to kill time than with a good book.

She crossed the room to one of the shelves, intending to browse through titles, when a tapestry on the wall distracted her. It was a ghastly, moth-eaten old tapestry depicting a gang of mountain trolls hunting down and devouring a pack of deer. It was a rather horrible picture and a crudely-wrought tapestry, and Hermione would not have looked at it twice if it hadn't been for the fact that it was the very tapestry Remus had helped her and Ginny take down from the wall and shake out in the yard many days before.

Hermione absently brushed her fingers against the tapestry, tracing the figure of one of the monstrous trolls, as she remembered Remus that afternoon. He had been so kind, so obliging as he followed Hermione and helped her with her work. She remembered the way he'd touched her knee—gently, discreetly—under the table that same evening at dinner. It had felt so natural then, even when they'd been trying to hide their affections from their housemates. Hermione longed for Remus to do the same now, with no fear of reprisal if anyone else should see. It was time to stop hiding.

Hermione felt an odd pull in her chest, as if the breath were slowly being pressed from her. She clutched her hand bracingly to her chest, above her heart.

"Feeling all right?" Alastor growled behind her, the concern sounding foreign in his rough voice. "Should I get Minerva?"

"No, I'm fine, just…" Hermione trailed off, having no real answer for him.

"It's good you're back safely. Two less people to lose sleep over." Mad-Eye had closed his book and had fixed Hermione with both eyes. There was a strange patience in his living eye, a softness of his lined face in the flickering candlelight.

"Where is Remus?" Hermione asked, not caring for the pleasantries.

"Use your senses," he growled as the lines of his brow hardened. "It's a full moon tonight. He's in no condition for visitors."

Hermione blinked. She had forgotten his monthly work for the Order, which would take him out of the security of headquarters and into the werewolf underground.

"Will he be gone long?" she wondered.

"I'd imagine until the sun rises, unless you think it's a good idea to let him out before then," Alastor grumbled, his voice dripping sarcasm. The calmness and the patience in his living eye had faltered. "Did you even _read_ the chapter on werewolves, girl?"

"Well, no—that is, y—yes, of course," she stammered. "I mean, I thought he went underground on his mission."

Mad-Eye stared hard at her for one silent moment. The cobalt blue iris of his magical eye was cold as ever, and it did not stray in its socket. "It was too late for that," he said at last. "Not enough time to get himself there before transformation. But he's good and locked away now, so you can sleep soundly."

"I don't understand," she blurted. "Didn't he take Wolfsbane?"

He actually laughed. "What a notion," he barked. "There was an apparent shortage of that particular potion on the streets of London. He was gone three days, anyway—tracking down your captors before they could grow bored of you."

Hermione bristled, not only at the sarcasm but also at the possibility that Remus would have arrived too late to save her. She wondered what her captors (Death Eaters, from what everyone had been saying) would have had in store for her if she hadn't been delivered. The indebtedness and gratitude she felt for Remus was almost more than Hermione could bear.

She swallowed a bitter taste in her throat and fought to keep her voice even as she asked once more, "Where is he?"

"Oh, no you don't, missy," Mad-Eye said, his face contorting in a wicked grin. "Remus may not be able to resist a simple batting of your lashes, but I'm a different story. I'll say it again: he's in no condition for visitors. Off with you."

This was the end of their conversation, for Alastor had opened his book and returned to scowling at it. He couldn't have been ignoring her completely, for as she turned to leave Hermione thought she saw the brilliant blue of Alastor's magical eye peering at her beneath his brow. The girl couldn't make out the exact words that he muttered as she left, but she swore she heard something about, "_princess_ charming…"

Hermione had lost the desire to read herself to sleep. Perhaps she'd sit in the living room and nurse a cup of herbal tea until she felt calm enough to lie back down in bed, though she had enough to think about to keep her awake for a while yet.

Her favorite seat on the couch by the window offered little comfort. The house seemed emptier and colder than ever. The loneliness seemed to affect everything about that night, chilling first her tea and her fingers and then moving through Hermione, into her very bones. She shivered, vanished the half-empty teacup and curled against the arm of the couch with her knees pulled up to her chin.

Outside, Hermione could see the wide, yawning face of the full moon hanging in the sky behind the trees. The tallest boughs swayed gently in a breeze that she could almost feel blowing through her. Shards of silver light danced on the grass where the moonlight broke through the trembling tree branches. The planks of the unfinished shed lay bare in the unyielding lunar glow. The structure looked so weak, so vulnerable in the cold night…

And suddenly Hermione knew exactly where Remus was.

Moments later she was crossing the hall on the balls of her feet, holding her wand firmly at her side so she could conjure necessary muffling or disillusionment charms. The girl must have spent more time on her couch than she'd thought, because Mad-Eye seemed to have abandoned his book and retired for the night. The library was dark and unoccupied as Hermione passed.

She slipped quietly out the back door and into the scattered glow of the moonlight. It was very quiet and still, almost more so than within the house, except for the slow swaying of the tree branches in the breeze. The dry limbs whispered as they moved against each other.

As she approached the small hut, a strange sensation overcame Hermione. She faltered, thinking it was simple anxiety about the whole situation—her recent encounter with Death Eaters, her desire to see Remus again and the fear of seeing him in his present form. She pushed past the feeling and forced herself to take another step when it occurred to Hermione that the odd sensation was a subtle compulsion to turn away from the shed.

The second she suspected an aversion charm, the compulsion became easier to resist.

Yes, she thought, he had to be here.

She closed her fist tighter around the handle of her wand and stepped up to the shelter. It was empty—a hollow shell constructed of wooden planks. But the loose dirt floor of the structure looked as though it had recently been disturbed. Hermione tested it with her bare foot and found that her toes sunk right through and brushed something solid and cold beneath. She kicked away the dirt and unearthed a metal hatch that proceeded to thwart her first handful of attempts at unlocking.

When she at last employed the right combination of counter-spell and charm, the hatch slid open on a deep, inky blackness. There was a sniffling, scuffling sound somewhere below. Then the chill breeze came up from behind Hermione, catching in her hair and tugging at her pajamas. The scuffling halted abruptly in the darkness, and the girl shivered.

She could see now that there were wide, stone stairs leading down. She kept her wand ready before her and began her descent. As soon as she dropped below the level of the turf, she realized it was not into utter dark she had entered. There was a glow ahead and when she reached the landing of the stairs she saw that a faint light entered the cavernous space through openings set high in the ceiling—at the height of the yard, she realized.

At first it seemed that nothing but shadows lay in the spaces between shafts of bluish moonlight. But soon Hermione's eyes began to focus in the grainy darkness, and she perceived, darker than the surrounding shadows, a vast and slouching shape. There was a vague movement, accompanied by a soft scuffling sound. The shape had moved a fraction closer and into the path of a shaft of dim light that flashed iridescent in two luminous, rolling pupils.

Hermione didn't believe at first that the faint squeak she heard next had come from her own mouth. She took one tiny step backward, and the monstrous shape growled—a low, harsh sound that rumbled enormously. The glowing pupils had fixed on her, and with another shadowy movement of the figure, they slipped past the shaft of light and out of view.

Although petrified by fear, Hermione knew she was being stalked. She pictured it with an odd mental clarity: the shape would attack, there would be a snap of jaws and perhaps a crunch of bone, brief moments of pain, and then oblivion. All this she knew and couldn't help because she was powerless to do anything but stand there and shake.

There was another scuffling sound, this one more hurried, more condensed—like a discharging gun—and the shadowy form leapt at her.

Suddenly Hermione's rationale fell apart. She forgot every defensive spell, every hex and curse she'd ever learned. It was just like that other time in the Leakey Cauldron. Hermione remembered being attacked then, too. She remembered blanking, remembered standing there stupidly while the vast shape of a stranger subdued her.

"_Lumos!_"

She screamed the only spell left written on the suddenly blank pages of her education. The light that burst from the tip of her wand would not have been enough to save her, but it did illuminate the enormous, gray werewolf as the chains binding it snapped taut several feet before Hermione. The immobilized werewolf strained against its bonds, snarling savagely and chomping at the empty air while flecks of foam gathered at the corners of its mouth.

More primate than man, really, as it stood on its hind legs and tugged at the cuffs binding its long forelimbs. It stood taller than Hermione remembered, with sinuous, ropy muscles that jumped beneath the skin with effort. The fur was thin, lank, and looked almost silky, as though it would be very soft to the touch.

The absolute last thing Hermione wished to do was _touch_ it.

The room tip and swayed, and then the girl found that she had fallen backward against the stairs. She kept her glowing wand aloft, as if the tiny beacon of light could keep those snapping jaws away. The werewolf followed her lead and dropped on all fours, and doing so it was forced back another foot or two by the restraint of the chains. The shape looked more canine in this position, but it was still far from being wolf. The arch of it was wrong, the almost hairless ridge of the spine, the roundness of the skull, the thin limbs.

The werewolf stared at Hermione, took several paces to the right and then back to the left, testing the slack of the chains. It outlined a sort of arch by doing this, and Hermione mentally sketched the parabola into the stone floor. On that side, the werewolf could pace and stand and chomp, and on this side, it couldn't. She would be safe a few more feet nearer to it.

Hermione slipped down the last two steps, moving slowly, keeping her lighted wand before her. As she drew near, the werewolf's ears pricked alertly forward, its pupils dilated, it gnashed its teeth and slobbered and strained at the collar and the leg cuffs. Hermione could see that its driving objective was to break loose and attack her. Remus told her once that the instinct was to bite, but she found it hard to believe that, given the chance, the werewolf before her would stop at simply biting. It looked as though it wished to devour her.

Hermione sat on the stone floor with legs crossed, watched, and forced herself to think of the monstrous shape as belonging to a human. The werewolf's appearance had not altered since the end of Hermione's third year at Hogwarts, when she had watched her professor transform. The only difference was that the man buried deep within the beast's subconscious was dear to Hermione now, and he had been little more than an acquaintance before.

Now Hermione longed to recognize some part of Remus in that long, wolfish face; in the lips peeled back against the gums, in the bared teeth that glistened with delicate threads of saliva, in the ropy limbs, in the sloped back with the ridge of the spine sticking out. But she had seen the naked chest and arms of the man within, had felt the grace and beauty of his strong, scarred back. She knew the kind face, the wide nose and the lips that always turned upward at the corners in a natural smile.

Nothing of Remus remained in the monster.

Nothing, but the eyes.

Hermione realized the eyes had hardly changed with the transformation. Certainly they were wilder now, larger and brighter and keen for flesh. But the irises were his. Hermione knew as soon as she had brought herself to look into the hazel-gray orbs. They reminded her that the werewolf pacing in front of her had at one time been the man she loved, and would become him again. She could look at it this way and see not only the beast, but the man as well, inhabiting the same space hours apart, connected by tissue and bone and blood but distinct in mind.

Then everything went foggy, and the vision of the Remus/wolf seemed to swim in her eyes, which were suddenly stinging with fluid. Hermione lifted the fingers of her wand-free hand to the moisture on her cheeks, and wondered why she should be crying.

In his crooked, earth-prone form, Remus stopped pacing and gave a solitary howl of frustration. The ghostly sound ripped through Hermione, making her shiver and her scalp prick. Perhaps his sharp nose had sensed her fear, because Remus went mad. He was suddenly clawing at the stone floor in his attempt to break free. He tugged at the chains and barked his insistence at the girl. A strangled yelp erupted from his throat as Hermione saw the metal collar bite deep into the skin of his neck. Soon she could smell the faint, sharp twang of blood and knew Remus would only work the cuffs and the collar deeper into his flesh if she continued to drive him mad with her presence.

Giving one last wipe at her eyes, she stood and quickly fled up the stairs. When she reached the top she sealed up the hatch and threw herself down outside the unfinished shed. She leaned against the outer wall, tucked away her wand, hugged her knees to her chest and imagined Remus below, sniffing out the last of her scent from the air, pushing his nose around the floor in a vain search for her, standing on his hind legs and finally dropping back down to the ground. She imagined him in the absence of human distraction, a harmless animal tugging at his lead and whining, pacing an endless circle around and around like a chained dog.

Perhaps he would eventually give up and then shuffle around for the least uncomfortable bit of stone floor to sleep on. Maybe he would drop his chin between his forelegs like a wolf, or curl up nose-to-tail like a sinewy greyhound, or lie on his side like a man. She wondered if he would dream. She thought of the cuts she had helped put into his neck and wrists by being near with her irresistible human-smells. She would heal them for Remus later in the morning.

Hermione dozed there against the shed until the sky began to lighten in the east. She waited until the sun had just peeked over the azure horizon, then she stood, reopened the hatch and went down. She had already begun to feel the chill from the previous night settle into her bones, and the damp underground room only worsened the cold in her. She came down slowly, tentatively, waiting for the last vestiges of werewolf to spring for her, but there was no need for her caution.

Remus was asleep.

He lay with his back to her as she entered. His side rose as fell with shallow but steady breaths. She could see as she approached that his limbs were tangled in the chains that he had dragged about as a werewolf. The metal collar and cuffs looked absurdly large on his human body, which was perfect, lean and powerful. And gloriously naked. Hermione had never been in the company of a naked man, even one sound asleep. She was sure her own body did not possess quite the elegance, the rightness of form that his did—from his sculpted knees to the crest of his narrow hips to the shadowy crop of dark hair…

Hermione felt herself blush hotly; she forced her stare away from lower extremities and took in his sleeping face. His brow was tense, his eyes restless beneath the lids. Hermione kneeled beside him and brushed a few strands of the sandy, gray-streaked bangs out of his face. His whiskers had grown in since she saw him last and now lined his jaw and neck, an all-over stubble that made him look sloppy and charming.

On closer inspection, however, he was not the perfect vision she had wanted to see. Her eyes were almost immediately drawn to the deep bruise that banded his neck. The collar was loose on him now, and Hermione could hook two or three fingers under it and shift it aside to see the damage; dark blood caked where the skin had broken. Hermione retrieved her wand from the waistband of her pajama pants and set to work at once, closing the skin, healing the bruise, siphoning off the dried blood. She checked his wrists and applied the same treatment where needed. There were other scrapes and bruises, other reminders of his long night as a werewolf, but these were minor and would heal quickly on their own.

Hermione was almost certain the locks on the cuffs and collar would not give; she tried to be sure but quickly gave up, not wanting to hurl too many counter-spells and jinxes at Remus while he slept. So instead she watched him for a while and soon felt the overwhelming peace and the sleep of him emanate into her own suddenly exhausted body. She was still chilled from the night before, and Remus looked so warm and comfortable lying there.

Hermione lowered herself onto her side, facing Remus, carefully lifted his arm from where it hung across his chest and ducked beneath the chain. She slid easily into his arms and pressed herself against his skin, letting it touch her through her pajamas wherever possible—their chests, hips, thighs, shins, ankles. She felt as though there simply wasn't enough of Remus to touch, his arms weren't thick enough to encompass her, his shoulder wasn't large enough for her fingers to grasp. But Hermione snuggled into him best she could, brought her mouth near his and let his nose press into her cheek. When she breathed in the sweat and the earth of him, she was sure he was again completely, and every part, Remus. She sighed happily, and sleep began to settle like a warm blanket over her.

Hermione had just felt her mind start to slide into a dream when Remus stirred.


	15. Chapter 14

For my invaluable beta, Marble Meadow. And a hearty thank you to all my readers for the months of support and encouragement.

Be sure to read the epilogue; it should be out in a day or so!

_(coeptus)_

Lupin first became aware of the warmth against his front. He felt the weight and pressure of something very soft lying in his arms. Knowledge of what felt to be a stiff bed and frigid sheets was also there, dimly at first although it would begin to trouble him soon enough. For a few precious moments Lupin allowed himself to feel only the softness and the warmth in his arms like cuddling an armful of morning sunlight. He inhaled deeply, and his mind came awake with sweet floral scents that promised crisp sunrises, glimpses of budding paradise and endless fragrant utopias.

_Hermione_, he thought as a little jolt of pleasure traveled downward through his chest.

Still longing to entertain the fantasy, Lupin kept his eyes tightly shut and tried to remember the previous night. It must have been an exquisite and breathtaking sequence of events that had brought him to the floor with his arms around this delicate, sweet-smelling girl. It was too great a vision to waste on faulty memory, and Lupin cursed himself for his inability to recall even the merest fragment, the vaguest image, the lightest sensation or the tiniest bit of sound. How beautiful she must have looked beneath him, he thought…

Lupin cracked open one eye, thinking he might at last remember something of the previous night if he only saw her face again. His sleep-blurred vision was greeted with her flesh, glowing pinkish in the faint morning light. He saw one dark, curved shape of her down-turned lashes, which brushed the ridge of her cheek in sleep. Something funny stirred in his gut at the unfocused image, but he still remembered nothing. Thinking that perhaps the girl could remind him with a bit of coaxing, Lupin moved an arm to brush her soft skin.

Several things occurred to him at once. Although Lupin himself was undoubtedly nude, Hermione was fully clothed; he could feel the fabric of her shirt dragging against his skin as he moved. Lupin also realized he was chained. A manacle weighed down his wrist and the chain clinked at his movement. He thought of the stone-cold floor and suddenly his faulty memory made perfect and terrible sense. It wasn't that he had no memories of the previous night. He'd been trying to recall the wrong memories, memories of things that hadn't happened. A flood of true memory came over him now—a wave of distorted images all run together in the way that told him they could only have been committed to memory by a creature less sentient than human.

Lupin had been a werewolf last night. He could conjure no innocent excuse for whatever Hermione was doing in his arms the next morning on the stone floor of the little cellar beneath the yard.

His stomach lurched and suddenly his skin was chilled with perspiration. Lupin did not consider the situation a second longer. He slipped his chained wrists clear over the girl's head, disentangled himself from her limbs and in the same fluid movement sprang into a crouch well away from her. His back encountered the stone wall before the side of Hermione's head, unsettled from its perch on his arm, met the floor with a soft _thwack_.

"Oh!" she gasped, starting awake. She seemed to realize where she was; her eyes widened and she raised herself up on her elbows to gaze at him with a perfectly innocent expression of shock and curiosity.

"Did I hurt you?" he demanded.

She shook her head mutely and sat up, touching her fingers to the side of her head where she'd encountered the floor.

He stared unblinking at her for a long moment, wordlessly gauging any injury she might be trying to conceal. When Lupin was sure he hadn't bitten or otherwise harmed her as in his werewolf state, he let out the explosive breath he'd been holding. He leaned against the wall, hung his head over his chest and was instantly reminded of his state.

With his face hot, Lupin knelt and folded his hands in his lap.

"Please bring my cloak," he said, not looking up but nodding toward the high shelf on the wall behind Hermione. In his peripheral vision, Lupin watched the girl twist her head around to see the place he'd indicated. She wordlessly got to her feet, padded away and returned shortly with his gray cloak held out.

Lupin eyed it resentfully. Finally he forced himself to raise one arm and take the cloak from her; the other he kept across his lap, although he supposed it was pointless now. Hermione had not taken her eyes from him. Her stare was gentle but it still sent fire coursing up Lupin's cheeks and through his ears.

"Thanks." He spread the cloak over his lap like a blanket, but it did little to put him at ease. He stared as Hermione sat back down, nearer to him now than she had been when he'd sprung back from her. Then Lupin asked, "What are you doing here?"

A muscle in her brow tensed. "Watching over you," she said as though it were perfectly obvious.

The part of his heart that always softened at the sound of her voice would otherwise have dismissed her error, except that today an equally powerless part of him flared with frustration.

"H—How long have you been down here?"

"It was midnight—"

"God," he moaned, pressing his palms into his eyes. "Hermione, do you have any idea how seriously you could have been hurt, and no one would have even known to look for you down here?"

"Please let me finish," she said, her brows knit and her dark eyes glittering in the weak light through the high windows. "It was midnight and I couldn't sleep and figured out you'd be down here. I didn't stay," she went on quickly. "I just saw you for a moment, but you were hurting yourself trying to get at me, so I went upstairs and waited outside. I came down again just now because I was worried, but I didn't stay last night."

Lupin rubbed wearily at his neck. "You may be surprised what little comfort that is," he said. "You shouldn't have come down here at all."

"But you were hurt! Your neck, your wrists—the chains…"

"—Are none of your concern. I have been doing this a very long time, Hermione. There are rules. You shouldn't have nosed around down here when you had no business being here in the first place."

"I couldn't have left you all alone," she said with a catch in her voice.

Lupin sighed. He realized his hands were shaking slightly, though from frustration, weakness or fear for what might have happened to the girl, he could not tell. "Please, Hermione," he said, "I think it would be best if you went back into the house. Alastor will be down soon with the key to unlock the chains. I'll be all right."

She stared at him, her chocolate-brown eyes large and sad. Lupin did not want her pity, and he did not want to think about how close she had come to danger by his hand.

"Please go," he said.

"I don't understand, Remus. Why are you acting this way?"

He ground his teeth together before answering. "You put yourself in danger by being here. You shouldn't have come."

"I was worried. Why shouldn't I come when I'm worried?"

"Because I did not go to all the trouble of saving you just to attack you as a werewolf!"

She stared at him, unmoving.

"GET OUT!"

He had never raised his voice to her. Lupin would no sooner have struck her, but it seemed to have the same effect on both of them. Hermione's expression went curiously blank. He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth, but Lupin could not take them back, especially not when the intention behind them was sincere. For her own well-being, Hermione should have left hours ago. She left now instead, and she did it so quietly she might as well have been screaming his curses the entire way. She rose gracefully to her feet and swept up the stairs, leaving him in a silence that burned his ears.

He did not have time to think about whether he'd mistreated her, because within moments another figure shadowed the staircase. Alastor came hobbling down, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane this morning.

"What was all that about?" he growled as he paused on the landing to collect Lupin's clothes from the shelf. "The girl ran out of here like she'd flunked an exam."

"She was crying?"

Alastor tucked the bundle of clothing, including Lupin's wand, under his arm and hobbled closer. "Ah, don't tell me you're getting soft, sleeping beauty," he said, his magical eye rolling mirthfully. "A girl that headstrong needs a good reigning in once in a while." He dumped the clothes in a small heap at Lupin's knees.

Lupin glanced disinterestedly at his trousers, which had been neatly folded but now lay strewn over the pile of clothes. "You knew she was here," he accused softly.

Alastor snorted. He didn't answer, but slowly and heavily knelt and went about unlocking Lupin's bonds. After Alastor had gone, Lupin dressed and locked up the underground room for the time he would need it next.

Stiff-legged and lead-jointed, he went into the house.

Boards creaked in the upper levels of Grimmauld Place as its occupants made ready for the day. Lupin could hear bits of distant conversation among Order members taking their morning meal at headquarters. The chink of plates and cutlery drew him toward the dining room and thoughts of warm food.

The conversation did not end as he entered, but the volume dropped off for a brief moment as a number of heads craned around to look at him before turning back. Lupin saw a grin or two and even a little nod, but he stood there for a moment anyway, puzzling that they could be meant for him.

Fred and George Weasley left him in no doubt, however, as they both cried at once, "Oi, Lupin!"

"It was ruddy brilliant of you, going after Hermione like that, mate," said Fred over a plate of sausages. "Everyone else thought you were bang out of order."

"We knew you'd come through," said George. Together, the twins held up their glasses full of pumpkin juice and toasted him.

Lupin grinned at them, his face burning for the second time that morning. He noticed Ron nearby scowling darkly at his eggs and decided to move farther down the table. He took an empty seat beside Kingsley Shacklebolt, who acknowledged him with a dip of his head and a brief glance from the corner of his eye.

Lupin reached over the table for a piece of fruit and saw that he was sitting across from Harry.

"Morning, Lupin," the boy said politely. Ginny was not with him; she was nowhere to be seen, in fact. Lupin thought it odd that she should be missing from a meal where both Ron and Harry were present. Then he remembered Hermione's absence and decided not to comment about it to Harry, to save them both the embarrassment of explaining.

"Hello, Harry." He plucked an orange from the bowl.

"Sleep all right?" Harry's tone was guarded but genuinely curious.

Lupin glanced at him. Something in the set of the boy's jaw and the resigned look in his eyes told Lupin that Harry already knew the answer. He was grateful Harry did not mention the lycanthropy, although he assumed the boy possessed enough presence of mind to realize what night it had been.

Lupin had just drawn breath to thank him for the concern when an outburst interrupted him.

"What a thing to ask, Harry!" Fred called down the table. "_Sleep all right!_"

"Back with Hermione from the Death Eaters," George chimed in. "How d'you _think_ he slept?"

The twins, at least, appeared to have lost the talent to read a calendar…

Lupin dropped the orange, which bounced once and rolled off his plate. 

A few seats down, a glass clattered onto the tabletop, having fumbled from its owner's outstretched fingers. Its contents overturned between a basket of fruit and a plate of sliced brown bread. Ron's face grew red as he glared at the sodden tabletop. 

The commotion was somewhat drowned by the voice of Molly, who had just come in from the kitchen with a hissing skillet in her hand.

"Fred and George Weasley, I'll have no more of that!" she said in a sharp, strident tone that made several people besides the twins straighten in their chairs. "And after all Remus has done—why, it's more than I've ever seen the two of you accomplish. Have some respect!"

"What d'you mean, we haven't accomplished anything?" Fred gasped.

"Entrepreneurs, mum," George said, jabbing his chest with his thumb. "Own our own business, remember?"

"And you're still loafing around here, looking for meals, I'll remind you. Not like Charlie or Bill, who manage to survive on their own for more than a week."

"Ah, don't be like that, mum," said George.

It was still an awkward conversation to be in the midst of, Lupin thought, but not nearly as uncomfortable as the previous topic of discussion. He felt a peculiar brand of sentiment toward Molly Weasley for having diverted the table's attention just then—a sentiment he'd never felt toward her in his life. He was actually grateful.

Molly had whisked down the length of the table, flicking her wrist now and then and charming fat, juicy sausages to fly down onto the plates of any who requested them. Now she pulled up beside Lupin's place at the table.

"Have some sausages, dear," she murmured, tipping the last three onto his plate. Their sides had crackled a deep golden brown and their sweet, smoky scent made Lupin's mouth water.

"Thank you," he said, meaning more than just the sausages. Their eyes met for a moment. Molly smiled at him.

"Don't mention it."

Lupin tucked into the sausages with knife and fork. Steaming and soft, they melted on his tongue and required little chewing. Lupin was almost hungrier for the flavor than the actual nourishment, so he found himself chewing more than was necessary. When he was no longer ravenous, he looked up and realized Harry was staring at him.

"Sorry about, you know—" Harry tipped his head in the direction of the twins, who were busy telling a loud and animated story.

"It wasn't your fault," said Lupin as he lathered butter onto a thick slice of bread.

"If I had known they would say something…"

"Don't worry, Harry." He tore off a corner of bread and popped it in his mouth. After chewing, he went on. "Thank you for the concern. I'm—all right," he said, realizing it wasn't a proper answer to the question the boy had asked in the first place.

Harry must have noticed, too, because he grinned and said, "I didn't sleep well, either."

Lupin fingered the handle of the knife. "Are…you and Ginny all right?"

"Wha—?" His cheeks were bright red. "Yeah, we're f—fine," he stammered. "I just don't sleep well these days."

"Welcome to old age," Lupin chuckled. He finished the bread slowly, chewing one sweet mouthful at a time.

"I just wanted to say I'm really glad for what you did," Harry said after a moment. "Really, really glad. Regardless of what anyone else might think about all of it…"

Lupin sipped at his water. "Well, thank you, Harry. That means a lot," he said. He pushed away his plate and what was left of the last sausage, and folded his hands on the tabletop. "However," he went on, dropping his voice slightly, "I feel I must apologize for my actions. I behaved irrationally when I flew out of here that day. I wasn't thinking clearly and I set a poor example. And I hope," he added, raising an eyebrow, "that my error will not be repeated."

Harry chuckled softly. "Yeah, okay," he said, chasing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with two fingers. For a moment, Lupin was reminded of James so strongly that his chest ached.

"Remus speaks wisely, Harry," added a deep, steady voice beside Lupin. "Each of us has a responsibility to the work of the Order. We accomplish nothing by dividing before our enemies."

Lupin nodded graciously at Kingsley.

"I understand," Harry sighed. "I hadn't wanted—I mean, it's not what I set out to do. It was an accident, really, killing that Death Eater near King's Cross."

"Yes, Alastor told me," said Lupin. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Harry. You ought to be ready to face these issues. I'll see if you can't sit in on the next Order meeting and be briefed on all that's going on. When the time comes, you'll need to be ready to fight."

"I will be, I promise," Harry said, nodding. "I'll be ready to kill."

Lupin believed him and found that his appetite had fled.

Soon he had excused himself and was standing outside his bedroom with one hand on the doorknob. He gazed over his shoulder at the stairs that led to the third floor of the house. He thought about going up to see Hermione, but he had no idea what he would say to her. Lupin knew he was in no state to be any real conversation partner. Weakness and lack of sleep made his ears ring and his head spin.

Lupin went in and lay down on his bed. He dozed for several hours until midday sun burned outside the window and woke him with its unyielding brilliance. He squinted awake, feeling feverish from his interrupted nap. It occurred to him, as the air shifted and he smelled the distinct ripeness of his clothes, how long it had been since he'd cleaned himself up. He rummaged in the small dresser for a clean pair of slacks and his favorite shirt, which had once resembled a simple Muggle-made sweatshirt but now bore the familiar patches and frayed hems of so much of his sparse wardrobe. 

He was careful not to glance into the mirror as he entered the bathroom, fearful of the unkempt man who might be looking back. Lupin stripped and showered. He used the soap liberally and stood for an extra minute or two beneath the flow of the hot water. When some of his usual aches abated, he toweled off, dressed in the fresh clothes and made his way back to his room, thinking he might read on his bed for a while.

He hadn't counted on his bed being occupied by the time he got back.

Hermione was sitting on the edge, sketching patterns into the comforter with her fingertips when he entered. "Hi," she said.

"Hermione." Lupin had meant to say more, but he couldn't seem to get past her name. His voice was also softer than he'd intended.

The girl hopped up. She was no longer in her pajamas; she wore a white skirt and a plain pink tee. It was Lupin's favorite color on her. The golden highlights of her hair, which fell in loose curls down her back, were starker against the basic brown than they had been earlier that morning. He assumed she had washed her hair, and he imagined how silken it would feel between his fingers. He refrained from crossing the room to touch it, remembering at the last second that he was supposed to be upset with her.

"I came down to say that I forgive you," Hermione said. She kept her arms stiffly at her sides, although a slight tension in her shoulder told Lupin she wanted to cross them over her chest.

"And for what am I being forgiven?" he asked.

"Lashing out at me earlier. I know you didn't mean it. You were just feeling vulnerable. You hadn't wanted me to see you like that."

He wondered how she could say it so confidently, and tried to mirror her patience as he replied, "But that's not…I meant what I said, Hermione. You put yourself in danger by coming to me. It was foolish."

Lupin knew it had been an unfair word to use. He saw the girl bristle. Her brow tensed and she stuck out her chin.

"I'd like to think I could defend myself against a chained animal," she said.

_Animal_. He replayed it in his head, forcing himself to absorb it, to feel the weight of that word. She hadn't said it unkindly but it still sank like a stone to the bottom of his stomach. He thought of her failure to defend herself in the Leakey Cauldron—and all the heartache it had nearly caused him—and the knot of fear in his stomach made him respond with more venom than he knew was necessary.

"I sincerely hope so, since you seem to have trouble defending yourself from live people."

Her eyes flashed, beautiful and cold as the edge of a blade. "Maybe that's a reflection on my teacher," she said darkly.

It was undeniably and terribly true. And it hurt.

Hermione went on quickly, with a peculiar lilt in her voice that Lupin wanted to believe suggested regret. "You followed me when I was in danger. Why shouldn't I follow you?"

"There's a difference. I could have hurt you, Hermione."

"There is no difference! I won't sit by while the man I love is suffering in any form!"

"You—" Lupin found it difficult to breathe just then. "Y—you love me?"

Something changed in her posture. The tension went out of her shoulders and her expression at the same time. She gave one tiny, helpless, gentle laugh and said, "Of _course_ I do."

He found it absurd he should realize just then that he'd been carrying a handful of dirty laundry through her confession. Lupin tossed his clothes into a chair in the corner and rubbed at his stiff neck. "Hermione," he said, stepping toward her. 

The girl considered him with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Lupin failed to think of anything eloquent to tell the girl.

"No one's ever cared for me like this," he said, spreading his palms helplessly. "You'll have to forgive me if I'm a bit speechless."

The smile broke its restraints and spread gloriously over her face. Hermione turned to pluck up a small package from the bed where she'd sat moments earlier. She handed it to him.

"What's this?" he wondered, accepting the package. It was flat, as wide as his palm and a fraction longer than his hand. It was wrapped in simple brown parchment. He unfolded one end and peered inside at the indistinguishable dark lump. Frowning, he folded down a corner to reveal the rough-hewn brick of chocolate.

"You haven't seemed quite yourself without a bar in your pocket all the time," said Hermione, ducking her face to catch his expression.

He murmured, "It's a luxury," but trailed off before he could finish, _I can no longer afford_.

The bar was Honeydukes, by the angled edges and the perfect, scripted "H" left by the mould. It was also missing a corner.

"Sorry if it's a bit eaten off of," the girl said, rocking back on her heels with her hands held behind her back. "Some arse yelled at me, and I was feeling sort of useless for a while before Ginny spent her morning cheering me up."

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, looking up at her. Even Lupin was surprised by the soft blurring that had risen into his eyes.

Her warm smile faltered. "It's already forgiven," Hermione said, touching a hand to the side of his face. "And anyway, I'm sorry, too. I said some hurtful things just now that I didn't mean."

He waved dismissively into the air.

"No, I'm serious," she said, reaching out with her other hand to hold his face. She had risen on the balls of her bare feet, and their eyes were almost level. "You were a brilliant professor, Remus," she said. "The best I've ever had." 

Still holding the chocolate, he slipped his arms around the girl and pulled her into himself, catching her lips with his own in the same movement. He felt her balance waver and her weight fell against his chest. Hermione's arms went bracingly around his neck and she kissed him back. Her mouth and tongue were sweet like chocolate.

They broke apart; Lupin buried his nose in her hairline and breathed in the same scents that had awoken him that morning. "How could you have chosen someone like me?" he wondered softly.

"How could I not choose you?" Hermione murmured against his neck. "I fell in love with you in this room, you know." 

He shivered at the sensation of her breath on his skin and looked down at her. "Hmm?"

"Right there," she said, nodding toward the bed.

"When was that?"

"When you let me help with your cuts."

"I remember," Lupin said.

Hermione bit her lip. "I'm sure it stung like hell."

"Yes. You drove me crazy," he said, pulling her hips against his own.

"_Me?_" she gasped. He felt her breath grow shallow.

"You have no idea, Hermione," he sighed, embracing her again. He ghosted the fingers of one hand up her back and into her silken hair. He held the back of her head, kissed her hair and whispered, "I love you, too."

Her breath hitched in her chest, which was pressing against his. She turned her face aside and leaned her head on his shoulder. They stood quietly together for a moment like that, with Hermione's small fingers clutching at his shoulders.

At length, Hermione said, "'And what shoulder, and what art could twist the sinews of thy heart?'"

Lupin chuckled. "Do you mean to call me a monster?" he teased. He felt her try to pull away, but he only tightened his arms around her and recited the next lines: "'And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand, and what dread feet?' Are you comparing me with the Tyger in Blake's poem? That's hardly fair, Hermione," he teased, gently mussing her hair. "After all, I don't know if he who made the Lamb made me."

"That's not what I meant," Hermione gasped, finally struggling off the pressure of his arms. Her face was delightfully pink, but she smiled and laid her hands on his chest. "I just meant," she went on as the blush deepened, "that you are artfully and fearfully made."

"Oh," he said, and kissed her again. "Thank you, I suppose." He laced his fingers together behind her back.

"So apparently everyone knows about us. Ginny's convinced we're shagging," she added with a roll of her eyes toward the ceiling. 

"Hmm." Lupin noticed the way she chewed her lip.

Hermione said, "And I was thinking…"

"—Yes." 

He'd been too quick with his reply. Hermione must have noticed, because she gave a nervous little laugh.

"I was thinking, maybe we should follow her advice," she said, and something trembled in her voice. 

Lupin's mouth was suddenly dry. "Is that what you want?" he asked, very aware of their hips pressed together.

"Yes." She was still chewing that poor, abused lip. "Just…not yet. Let's wait a while," she said, her voice steady now.

He refused to let show the small thrill of regret he felt at that. It would have been so easy to lower her onto his bed—the bed she'd just confessed to having fallen in love with him on. It would have been so easy to follow her onto the bed, to settle his weight between her thighs, to kiss her jaw and hitch up her skirt… 

"It's not that I'm not sure or anything," she went on quickly. "I just don't want to be _that girl_, the one who gives it up right away. I mean, we haven't technically been on a first date yet." 

There was eager note in her voice that made Lupin wonder if she'd read the disappointment in his eyes. He forced those thoughts away. So it wouldn't be today, he told himself. But someday…

"I can fix the situation, you know," he said, "provided you don't mind a first date over a home-cooked meal."

"I prefer a home-cooked meal." She hugged him tightly and buried her face in his shoulder. "I want to be with you, Remus," she murmured, her voice muffled in his shirt. "Wait for me. Just give me some time."

The once-deadened flesh of his heart stirred again for the girl in his arms. "Take all the time you need, Hermione," he said into her hair. "You can have the second half of my life. I'll always wait for you."


	16. Epilogue

Let me begin by explaining that the title comes from William Blake's poem, "Tyger, Tyger." You should look it up if you're not familiar with it. It references another famous Blake poem, "The Lamb," which is the opposite in tone and subject. I picked out this line from the beginning to serve as my title because it hints at the dynamic between Remus and Hermione: the Tyger and the Lamb.

Lastly, I want to say that this story is for Professor R.J. Lupin, who taught me everything I needed to know about defense, except how not to die (you live on in the hearts of those who knew you). And for David Thewlis (you're still charming, despite your weak chin, prominent nose, and that infernal moustache).

_(coeptus)_

The house had not changed.

It had not changed aside from several suspiciously absent wall hangings and what seemed to be an unfinished exercise in carpentry lying bare-planked in the small backyard of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. All things—except one—had remained the same for Remus Lupin. It was still a house of shadows, of secrets kept by draperies, and of memories he would rather have forgotten.

He felt a little more at home in Grimmauld Place these days than he had in a long time, since years before when he was a student spending summer nights here with his best friends. Although James was still dead, he lingered in the house—in his son Harry. Sirius had recently joined James, but something of his dark eyes and wild hair remained in every grim tapestry, every gothic fixture, every crisp linen. Nothing had physically changed within the house, but the continued presence of Lupin's childhood companions had become more apparent than ever.

The people living here were different, of course. Deaths and chaos in the Wizarding society these last several years had taken a visible toll on the house's occupants. Some—like Harry—had grown quiet and their eyes were full of dangerous revenge. A few—like Ginny and even Molly—had developed tremendous fortitude in the face of societal turmoil. Molly had begun to shout less at her brood and apply her passion more in the kitchen, which never failed to turn out a hearty meal.

Ginny had taken up the role of house diplomat. At times there seemed to be no fewer than three of her whisking from this room to that, from one dispute to the next. A considerable amount of her effort seemed focused on mending Lupin's blunders in his own love life. Many arguments were settled by a passing comment of hers or an innocuous suggestion that Lupin go for a walk on such a fine day, just to discover Hermione had somehow gotten the same idea.

Lupin was sure the only thing preventing Harry from avenging both his godfather and Dumbledore was Ginny's tact at keeping peace. Harry was a very lucky man, if the way Ginny clung to his arm at every meal was any indication. Lupin would smile whenever he watched them from his own place at the table. Then he would cover Hermione's knee with his hand, and she would touch his wrist.

She had changed, too, but unlike the others. Hermione had always been a sweet girl, but she was gentler, kinder and more compassionate now than ever. When she had been his student at Hogwarts, she might have formed an intervention group on his behalf: perhaps the Society for the Protection of Every Werewolf. Now she had actually tended the wounds of his profession herself. She had stayed up one night disinfecting cuts and mending fractured bones that his fellow werewolves had dealt him. She had cared for him and—he later found out—grown to love him.

And therein lay the only change that mattered to Lupin. Hermione's heart was one of the largest he'd ever known, and against every law of the natural world, he'd found a place inside of it where he belonged.

He thought it only natural that she would someday share her bed with him. The first night she did so was under circumstances he had not anticipated.

He woke late one night to a soft cry outside his bedroom door. He was curious to discover Hermione's bandy-legged cat sitting in the hall at such an indecent hour. The cat blinked up at Lupin, gave an acknowledging little lick at its whiskered lip, and then frisked away down the hall and up the stairs.

Lupin followed on impulse, thinking to usher the cat back to the room of its mistress. Instead, he found Hermione's room empty. One of Crookshanks' discontented mewls at his ankle prompted him to continue his search, which led him to a sliver of light shining through the crack under a door farther down the hallway. It was the third-floor bathroom.

As Lupin approached the closed door, he heard a muffled sniffing sound that cut off in a startled little gasp when he knocked.

"Hermione?" He whispered through the door.

There was silence for a moment; finally the lock clicked and the handle turned. Lupin first noticed that Hermione had been crying. Then he realized how naked she was, standing there in her scandalously insubstantial white camisole and plain, pink panties.

Perhaps his eyes had wandered; she trembled and her expression became anxious.

Lupin wondered why she should seem frightened of him. Then he recalled another bathroom and an abandoned wand. He remembered a large, bald-headed barman with dead eyes, and the voice of a Death Eater who had confessed to roving intentions with his prisoner.

Crookshanks meowed reproachfully at Lupin's heels.

He held out his palms to show Hermione that he meant no harm. She stumbled into his chest and he held her close while she shook with silent tremors of relief.

"Come on, darling," he murmured into her hair. "You need rest. It's all right," he added when—as he shut off the light behind them and began leading her back toward her room—Hermione stiffened in his arms. Crookshanks joined them presently.

Lupin climbed onto her bed first, lying outside the sheets and leaving plenty of room for her. Hermione followed, slipping beneath the comforter and plastering herself as close as she could be against his frame. She nuzzled his throat so that her cool breath tickled his skin.

"It's all right, you're safe," he repeated until she fell asleep. He lay awake for a while, smelling her hair and memorizing the softness of her bare arm that rested atop the sheets with him.

He would not learn the softness of the rest of her body for several more weeks. On the second evening he would take her to bed, Hermione leaned in toward him after dinner and whispered in his ear.

"Wait up tonight."

Lupin had been waiting too many weeks for a distinct combination of such words. He asked no questions and dutifully did as he'd been told, staying awake almost an hour after the others had gone to bed. He lay atop the comforter and listened to the sounds of the house settling down until finally his door opened and Hermione entered, wearing her pajamas.

He rose to meet her. "Everything okay?" he asked, not because he worried that anything might be wrong, but simply to maintain normalcy and not jump to conclusions.

Hermione didn't say a word. She fit herself into his arms and began kissing him feverishly.

"Are you sure?" he asked, breathless between tastes of her skin, her lips, her mouth. She nodded into his shoulder and he felt himself weaken at the knees for her touch at last. "Okay," he said, catching her lips again.

They started with his clothes. She pulled greedily at his shirt and trousers. He let her trace his many scars and bring her small, delicate fingers across his chest, down his abdomen. Despite his racing pulse, he was slow to slip her shirt up over her head, to hook his thumbs in the waistband of her pajama pants, brushing her hips with his fingertips as he slid the pants off along with her panties.

She looked just the way he thought she would beneath her cotton pajamas. She was small of stature and narrow in the shoulders. The arch of her back was graceful, her arse smooth under his palm. Her stomach was flat, the crest of her hip bones protruded beneath the skin, and her lower abdomen swelled gently with undeveloped muscle. Her crotch was thatched with dark, dark brown—nearly black—curls, and her supple thighs brushed together at the tapering of the small triangle of light between her legs.

He felt, as he took in every feature of her young body, as though he'd been wandering for a very long time in a foreign land and had finally come home. There was something so familiar and comforting about the shape of her, as though he'd dreamed of it many years before but hadn't remembered until now.

Hermione was perfect.

She was also biting her lip under his inspection.

It wasn't the adorable, thoughtful gesture she'd used when he challenged her in class with a difficult question. This was more like the expression she wore whenever she heard about some new victim of the Death Eaters over dinner. The tension of her brow suggested unease.

"Hermione," he said, failing to stifle the chuckle he felt tickling his chest. He kissed her mouth and held her firmly against his front. "God, you're beautiful," he whispered into her hair. He held the back of her head and her arse and felt his erection harden against her belly. Hermione rose up on her toes—causing him to grunt at the friction—and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He led her with kisses and caresses to the bed, where he lowered her just as he'd imagined doing a hundred times before...

_(intercapedo)_

"Professor Lupin," she breathed against his throat one night, lapsing adorably as she did in times like these when the night was late and she was spent from the last of her tremors.

"Mmm?"

"Love me?"

He chuckled. "You have no idea," he said, brushing his lips against her brow. The girl nuzzled his throat and sighed.

It was true, Lupin thought as he wound his arms tighter around her and settled in for sleep, Grimmauld Place had not changed at all. The house had never been—and would never be—a place of real happiness. It would remain a place of shadows and painful memories.

But now and then on a night like tonight, Remus Lupin would rediscover joy with the woman he loved.

_(fin)_


End file.
